Orion Armed
by i'mpeckable
Summary: A hostage situation involving the world's manned satellites has unexpected implications for International Rescue. Somewhat movieverse, somewhat seriesverse, and a big dollop of imagination.
1. Alpha Ori

Summary: One year after the movie ends, the world–as well as International Rescue–has a major problem regarding manned orbital satellites. Set in semi-movie 'verse, blended with a bit of TV-verse and a hefty dose of imaginations.

Rating: T or PG-13. Certain people need their mouths washed out, and others shouldn't play with weapons.

Disclaimer: I don't own Thunderbirds. Nope, nope, nope, can't afford them until I win the lottery. But I like to play with them, and am a card-carrying member of "Characters Whumpers Anonymous." Charter, of course. John quotes from "Beyond the Looking Glass" by Lewis Carroll, published 1871. Virgil quotes a Sufi/Islamic proverb. Wow, those boys are literate! ;)

Thanks also to both Adam Aircraft (if you go there, you'll see what I mean) and Cessna web sites for potential Tracy civilian aircraft choices. And to both Avatar2 and not-so-wee-Hamish for the beta work, as well as Drew for his patience.

Spoilers: Only if you haven't seen the movie. And the boys refer back to conversations held in both "Driver's Ed" and "Aftermath."

Addendum: A diary/thought process during the creation of this story will be posted on completion at Fanfiction's sister site, ( titled "Orion Armed: Behind the scenes." Any sooner would spoil the story grin , and it has to go there as it's technically nonfiction. Additional comments will also be posted there.

Orion Armed

"One more time," Scott coaxed, "You can do it."

The engines whined, and the Adam 700–emblazoned with the Tracy Industries logo on either side of her fuselage–reluctantly yawed to the left. She shuddered–he felt it through the control column–then slowly rolled over like . . . _like Virgil waking up in the morning. _

She wasn't as graceful as One, nor did she move as smoothly as the Cessna would have. But she managed the rollover all right, and at least the little craft wasn't the behemoth that Two was. That was one craft he'd never tried rolling, and never would. "A little more practice, and we'll have it," he told the aircraft.

He wouldn't have done that with passengers onboard, especially Onaha. Mother-figure to all of them since moving to the island, she would have given him hell first, and then turned him over to Dad for final chewing. But he was flying solo back to Tracy Island, and–if he was careful, and didn't mess up the plane–no one would be any wiser.

It wasn't his usual job, ferrying the family jet. But the rescue business had been slow lately, and he was bored. So when Onaha had needed transportation to Honolulu–from there to hook up with commercial flights to the mainland–he had jumped at the chance. She'd taken two of the Three Musketeers–Tin-tin and Fermat–with her, Alan having elected to stay behind in order to pester for flight time. Which was another reason why he'd volunteered to fly to Hawaii.

His guess was that Tin-tin had gone along simply for the chance to go shopping. As for Fermat, well, Onaha had firmly informed Scott that it was none of his business. And over the past ten years he had learned–they all had–that once Onaha said No to something, pushing the subject was not always a good idea. So he didn't.

The global positioning indicator suddenly spasmed, redirecting his musings. Scott glared at it, and gave the monitor a couple of hefty taps, before he realized the significance of its action. There had to be a Thunderbird in the vicinity. They were designed to do just that, jam GPS and other tracking systems as needed. He reached to a compartment on the control panel, flipped it open, and activated the private communications system hidden there.

He scanned his airspace._ There it was!_ A silhouette at about nine o'clock. Kind of small, probably Thunderbird One, since there wasn't any reason for Three to be out. He didn't think they'd be on a mission, or he would have gotten a message. _Training run, maybe?_ That was a good guess, as Alan was still learning the various machines of International Rescue. _But who was with him?_

Not him, that was sure. Scott felt a brief flash of resentment, and quashed it down. Dad had two basic philosophies when it came to staffing International Rescue. The first was that everyone was cross-trained on every machine. Sensible, when you thought about it, as they all–except Alan, and his turn was coming–rotated shifts aboard Five. Which, in turn, necessitated rotation among the other Thunderbirds.

Dad's other philosophy was that the best way to know if you understood something, was to teach it to someone else. Hence, the primary pilot of any given Thunderbird was not necessarily the one who always trained someone on said Thunderbird. Scott smiled wryly, remembering his own struggles with teaching, especially on Four and Five. But it went back to Dad's cross-training theory. They each needed to know every piece of equipment.

_Well, it obviously isn't me in there,_ he thought. And Gordon was up on Five, pulling his rotation. _So that leaves Dad, John, and Virgil._ He pushed the Adam's engines, trying to catch up to One.

After a quick glance at the radio system, confirming the settings, he keyed the mike. "Tracy Two to Thunderbird One."

Silence. He rechecked the radio. The indicator remained dark, even though he was within range, both audio and visual. The silhouette had sharpened, and was definitely One. _It had to be Alan on a training run. Anyone else would have answered._

He keyed the mike again. "Okay, Alan," he said, "I know you're there, and ignoring me." He pushed the Adam's engines a bit more. "Want me to see if I can buzz you?"

The indicator glowed. "You'll burn it out again," Alan responded, sounding frustrated.

Scott grinned. He'd gotten his butt chewed pretty good the last time he'd victory-rolled one of their civilian jets, and burned out an engine doing it. They didn't quite perform like One, although one of these days. . . . "Who's your shotgun?" he asked.

"Go 'way, Scott," said Alan, "Or I'll shoot the nose cone at you."

"Not funny, Sprout." Scott frowned. Somewhere, somehow, his brothers had found a company that made toys which looked like International Rescue's vehicles. Or at least, what the company _thought_ the vehicles looked like. They'd put "Thunderbird One"on a cake and presented it to him for his birthday last month. The darned thing had been designed to eject its nose cone like a weapon, something that was physically impossible for One to do. The toy turned up in the oddest places ever since, probably courtesy of Gordon and Alan. It annoyed him, which was presumably why his brothers liked it.

He'd gotten close enough to note that Thunderbird One's right VTOL engine was off. It was also positioned halfway between the horizontal and vertical flight positions. Dad wouldn't have had that problem–_neither would I–_so that eliminated one option for shotgun. "You've got a VTOL off," he commented.

"I _know_ that," Alan retorted, "We're trying to fix it."

"Oh?" said Scott, his interest piqued, "Trying?" _Virgil shouldn't have a problem with VTOLs, even though Two's weren't quite as maneuverable as One's. _Andnow that he thought about it; One was definitely going slower than normal. In fact, she was going about as slow as it was possible for her to do without stalling.

His plane caught up to Thunderbird One, and Scott couldn't quite resist a slow buzz. "Did you . . . ?"

"Scott." John's voice broke in firmly, "Go away." He paused, adding emphatically, "Now."

The indicator went off and stayed that way. Scott chuckled. He rolled the Adam again, just because he could, and turned toward home. He didn't know what the problem was with One, but he was certain the situation was something he could hold over both of them, especially John.

Break/break/break/shouldbewhitespaceherebutff.nwillnotallowit/break/break/break

Skimming as low as he dared over the island, Scott noted the choppy look of the diving pool. He hadn't beaten them home after all. Then again, One on a bad day had more speed than any civilian plane–and most military ones–on their best day.

Swinging the plane around, he lined her up with the island's runway, landing the Adam precisely in the middle of the strip. He taxied away from the main structures and across the large circular area that also happened to be Thunderbird Two's launch pad. Keeping the main structures to his back, he maneuvered the plane into the hanger on the opposite side of the pad.

From the hanger, a tunnel led under the landing strip. It divided under the house, with one branch leading to an elevator that stopped just outside of Dad's office. The other branch was barricaded by a plain, solid, steel door, with a hand scanner and communications link beside it. That way led to International Rescue's hanger area, and access to all of their equipment.

Scott followed the path of least resistance, heading for the elevator. While this first door only took one hand "signature," it took two to enter the second door leading into International Rescue's hanger. There was an override feature for emergencies, of course, and someone could grant him access from inside. But today, it wasn't worth the bother.

He left the elevator, heading for the ramp that led to the main living areas. Partway down it, his thoughts fixed on the kitchen–and more specifically, the refrigerator–he vaguely heard someone calling his name. Scott stopped, and looked back.

Brains hurried from the office. "Scott," he called again.

His attention still focused on the kitchen, Scott waited until the man had caught up. "What's up, Brains?" he asked, continuing toward the kitchen.

"Gordon called," said Brains, his inherent stutter stretching the sentence past Scott's attention span, "It seems that there's a problem in Thunderbird Five's communications systems. There have been intermittent interruptions with communications."

Scott headed toward the refrigerator. Brains followed, continuing his discourse on Five's problem. Minimally listening to the scientist, Scott opened the 'fridge, and grabbed the first bottle at hand. He twisted off the cap and took a long swig from it.

And immediately spat it out.

The bottle fell to the floor. "What the-!" He broke off and looked at the container. Its contents had a faint pink colour, in spite of the label proclaiming it to be an ordinary bottle of water. He sniffed it cautiously, and recoiled. _The damned thing was spiked with hot sauce! _Not much, but just enough to spoil it. Scott had a pretty good guess who was responsible, even though that particular suspect was out of reach at the moment.

Pausing in his monologue, Brains looked at him in amused sympathy, _au courant_ with the mercurial relationships between the brothers. As Scott grabbed for paper towels to clean up the mess, Brains picked up the discussion.

"What?" Scott said, distracted from his fuming, "I'm sorry, Brains. I wasn't listening." He threw the towels in the trash, chucked the bottle in after them, and turned his attention to the engineer.

"If we go up to Thunderbird Five," Brains repeated, "I might be able to locate the problem with the communications system before it becomes a major concern. John is willing to fly Thunderbird Three, provided there is a copilot along." He paused, then added, "Alan volunteered."

"I'll bet he did," said Scott wryly, "John's willing to drive, huh? What about Virgil?"

"I haven't been able to locate him," Brains admitted, "He and Alan had an altercation yesterday, after their return in Thunderbird One."

_Oh?_ thought Scott. Altercation was a polite way of putting it. _Which reminds me._ "What was wrong with Thunderbird One?"

"There is something wrong with One?" Brains stuttered, surprised at the change of subject. "John didn't report any problems, and its post-flight checks were within normal limits."

"Oh?" said Scott, echoing his own thought. _What did you do, John? Or what did Alan do that you couldn't fix?_ He puzzled on this, then realized that Brains was speaking.

". . .be able to run a diagnostic."

Scott shook his head. "Don't bother," he sighed, "I'll round up John, and we'll meet you in Three's silo." Brains nodded, and departed to make his preparations.

Still brooding on the water bottle incident and the earlier situation with One, Scott again opened the refrigerator. He poked among the various bottles in there, searching for one that hadn't been tampered with. Settling on one, he inspected it carefully before opening it, noting with satisfaction that this seal hasn't been broken previously. Still, he cautiously sniffed at its contents. Deeming it acceptable, he downed a fair portion of its contents. He carelessly twisted the cap back on it, and returned the bottle in the 'fridge, before going off to find John.


	2. Beta Ori

The house would have caught no one's attention. One more ancient Victorian, with its porch sagging and paint peeling from the siding, it displayed the occasional plastic-and-tape windowpane as well. Pieces of its gingerbread were missing, giving it a gapped-toothed look. It was just one more house, in an area of old houses, providing cheap rooming near the university.

Inside, the people sprawled on couches, chairs and the floor in the main room of the house were as nondescript as the house. A mixture of nationalities, they blended into the university population easily. In fact, three of them were registered there as students, although under false names. In the past couple of weeks, they had moved easily about the university and the town, rarely drawing second glances from anyone.

At this time, their attention was focused on a whiteboard, bearing a number of abbreviations and names, with lines drawn between them in cross-reference. Beside it stood a woman. Of medium-height, she had brown hair and Caucasian features. There was a rigidity in both her posture and her expression, as though she tolerated no deviation or distraction from her goals, be it from outside or within her being.

Her expression was stern, as she looked over the group, engaged in a mental checklist of her own. There was Oden, her tall Nordic second-in-command. Their pilots, Elnoo, big and husky, his background a mystery; and Minette, a petite Frenchwoman with blatant blue and red streaks in her braided hair. Gaia, exotic and Gypsy-looking; and Rob, lanky and nervous, who–along with Oden–were their computer experts. Jorge, Mustaf, Chang, and Brad, their muscle, along with Elnoo. They all looked at her expectantly.

"We have been given a go," she said, "The mission will execute as planned." She paused, knowing they had all studied their parts, but wanting to ensure that nothing was left to chance. "Elnoo will dock at the Armed Services Platform, while Minette and Jorge dock at the International Space Station. Use the emergency access code to override the hatch controls." She looked at the others, each in turn. "Once in, Mustaf, Elnoo, Gaia, and I will secure the control center. Chang secures the armory, and Brad will round up any other personnel. There is a storage area on the lower level which can be used as a holding cell."

She paused, glancing around the room. "Gaia will use an EM pulse to disable the Orbital Systems Network." Her gaze returned to Minette and Jorge. "Wait for it. From there, Elnoo will take Oden and Rob to the broadcast satellite, and return himself. By then, we will have established our communications network."

"Vicky, are you sure we'll be able to start up our network?" asked Rob, brushing long straight hair out his eyes, a habit which had begun to irritate her, "We still haven't been able to gauge the strength of the pulse we'd get off ASP's system. It could disrupt systems longer than we anticipate."

"Why?" The woman's voice was heavy with suspicion as well as disapproval.

"ASP's system has a protected area that we haven't been able to break," said Oden. "It affects our calculations of exactly how strong a pulse we'll need."

"If the pulse is too strong, we won't be able to get our network up in time?" she frowned, her assessment of the problem quick and to the point.

"That's right."

"It is possible," said Gaia, in her low musical voice, "That once in ASP's systems, we can better identify the area in question, and finalize the calculations there." She shrugged expressively. "It is–how you say–our best shot."

"Our other option, Vickers," interjected Brad, in his flat Midwestern accent, "is to wait until we break that system." He shifted in his chair, unable to find a comfortable position for his big frame. "That way we'd be sure it'd work."

Vicky scowled, both at the suggestion and the nickname. The phone call last night had left her no options, not if she wanted to continue her career with this organization. The caller–a man she knew only as "General," had been quite specific with his instructions. "We will stay with the current time line," she said, "Timing for our takeover of ASP is critical, and our chances are better if most of their personnel are asleep."

The man shrugged. "Then we've got to go with Gaia's suggestion," he said. "Unless you have a better idea."

"Are you questioning me?" Vicky asked, impatiently.

Brad raised an eyebrow, his expression slightly mocking, but said nothing.

"Because if you are," she continued, irritation spilling out in her voice, "You can walk right now." Her hand dropped, feeling the weight of the small handgun she wore habitually. And the General's instructions last night had left her no option, even if she had wanted one.

The room's atmosphere thickened as they stared levelly at each other. The rest of the group remained still, watching. The only other movement was from Minette, playing nervously with her tri-coloured braid.

"Is questioning so bad?" Mustaf broke in, ever the peacemaker, "if we find weak areas before they are tested?"

Stomping down on her temper, Vicky responded automatically, "No." She collected herself, willing this irritation down. "No, of course not. If it identifies or strengthens weak points, questioning is not bad." She looked at Brad, her gaze slightly challenging. "But if it rips holes where there were none, it weakens the plan as a whole." She winced, hearing the pun in her words, but decided to ignore it. "Any further questions?" she asked the group.

There were none. "There we go at . . ." she consulted her watch, ". . . 1345."


	3. Gamma Ori

"Try it again."

Seated at Thunderbird Five's main control panel, Gordon–with Brains looking over shoulder–started the diagnostic programs again. Over the last three days, Five's communication computer had developed an aggravating habit of flicking off during communications, in a seeming random pattern. So far, it had been just an annoyance. But International Rescue couldn't afford this minor inconvenience developing into a major problem.

Gordon watched the scrolling of the diagnostics screen, and yawned. Nothing was showing off, out-of-kilter, or otherwise wrong. Nothing, except for a blink of the screen, which was followed by the crash of the diagnostic program. He sighed exaggeratedly, then looked over at Brains– who looked decidedly odd in the brown-trimmed jumpsuit he wore in the field–waiting for his analysis. _As odd as John looked in Three's flight suit, _he added, conveniently ignoring the fact that he wore John's customary gold.

"It shouldn't do that," Brains said, frowning at the display.

"Tell the computer that," Gordon said, petulantly. He rubbed his eyes, then typed in the reset commands for the program.

"Scott, John, anything?" Brains reached over Gordon's arm, tapping in additional code.

Squashed in a makeshift pod created by moving floorboards in order to access the conduits below, and trying to monitor both conduits and computer screen, Scott shook his head. "Nothing," he said, "I didn't even catch the crash." He stood, stretching his tall frame, then reached over to the keyboard of his laptop, resetting the program.

"Nothing here either," John said, tucked in his own "pod" on the opposite side of the control center. He glanced at his own laptop, and added, "There goes the diagnostic."

Gordon glanced over at his brother. "It crashed two minutes ago," he said.

"No, it didn't," John said, hoisting himself to deck level.

"A relay delay?" Puzzled, Brains looked from Gordon to John, then headed over to the latter.

"Hey, Brains," Scott cracked, "you're a poet. D'you know that?" Ignoring the groans from his brothers, he climbed out of his "pod," and walked over behind Gordon. "You sure you didn't load some game on the computer and rewrite the code?" he asked.

Gordon leaned back in the chair, looking upside down at his oldest brother. "That's Virgil's job," he grinned.

"Oh, that's right," Scott said, "Yours is setting the-" he put both hands on his brother's shoulders, while his foot engaged the switch that released the chair from its rails "-galley on fire." He pushed down on both the switch and Gordon, overbalancing the chair, and stepped back. Gordon and chair crashed to the floor.

"Hey, do you mind?" John said. He scowled at his brothers, then quipped, "Kill him quietly, please."

Gordon came up swinging, and they wrestled for a few moments. But while Gordon could look at or down on most of his brothers, Scott's four extra inches of height translated to additional leverage all around. He subdued his younger brother in a headlock, holding Gordon momentarily just to prove that he could, before releasing him.

As soon as Scott relaxed his grip, Gordon abruptly bent forward, flipping his brother over his shoulders. Unprepared for the move, Scott hit the floor with a resounding thump. The expression on his face caused both his brothers to break out laughing, and even Brains smiled.

"You've been working out," Scott gasped from the floor.

"Y'think?" Gordon panted, straightening up. He hadn't been completely sure the maneuver would work, but the results satisfied him. He grinned. "Been practicing on Alan."

Scott extended his hand, indicating for Gordon to help him up. Gordon eyed him suspiciously, and backed off instead. Scott chuckled, and rolled over, pushing himself up on his knees.

"He's learning," John commented.

The communications link beeped. "Tracy Island to Thunderbird Five," said their father's voice. "How's it going up there?"

Sheepishly, Scott got to his feet. "D'you think he heard?" he asked of the room in general. He flipped the comm switch, and Jeff's image flickered onto the screen. "No luck, Dad. We haven't found the problem yet."

Jeff studied his son's image in the view screen. Flushed and slightly breathless, Scott was surreptitiously tugging at his uniform, straightening it. Beyond him, unaware that he was on the view screen, Gordon was doing the same. The overturned chair lay between them. Jeff shook his head in exasperation, and decided against pursuing that particular subject. "Brains?"

Scott moved off screen, replaced by Brains. "The diagnostics program is not responding," he said, in his characteristic stutter, "I'm going to have to download it to our computers there and recheck the code. Until we know that the source is not there, we won't be able to pinpoint the problem with the communications."

Jeff reached over on his desk, tapping the appropriate commands onto his computer. "Ready to download," he said.

"I would prefer to bring it down on a removable storage device," Brains said, "It's possible that we could have picked up something on the system here, and I'd rather keep it isolated."

"All right, Brains," Jeff acknowledged, "I'll see if I can get an appropriate chunk of disc space roped off." He smiled–an exasperated, father's smile. "Tell them not to kill each other too badly. Tracy Island out." The screen went blank.

"How does he _do_ that?" Scott asked. He retrieved the chair, and replaced it on its rails.

"ESP," said Gordon.

"Past history?" John offered, coming behind them with the RSD. He put it into the drive, and typed a series of commands. Straightening, he looked at his brothers and Brains. "Somebody want to finish this download?"

In spite of their unique operating system, each of the Thunderbirds still required two separate identifying codes for major uploads and downloads to their main computer. Each of their pilots–as well as Brains–had his own code, allowing for accurate traces of who had done what to a given computer. Brains completed the sequence, and the drive whirred into action.

"I think I'll stay up here," John said, thoughtfully, watching the drive, "Maybe we can keep working on this end while you sort out the diagnostic program."

"You sure?" Scott asked, "You're back up here in a week, anyway." He grinned condescendingly at Gordon. "Gordon's a big boy. He can handle it."

Gordon threw a pencil–the only thing within reach–at him. It bounced off Scott and clattered on the floor.

"Yeah, I'm sure," said John, "Go on." He leaned against the bulkhead and grinned. "Besides, it gets me out of 'driver's ed'."

"I knew you had ulterior motives," Scott groused, "Leaving that hotshot to me and Virgil." He looked at his brother accusingly. "You just don't want to admit how rusty you are. Especially on One."

John smiled, innocence personified, and Gordon snickered.

"We'll probably be back up here in a couple of days," Scott continued, "Anything you need up here?" He scowled at Gordon. "A little hot sauce, maybe?"

"Food," Gordon said promptly, virtuously ignoring both comment and look, "and _not_ MRE's."

John went over to the red locker–with its prominent white circle and red cross–next to the airlock, He rifled through its contents. "We're low on antibiotics all around," he called, "But Onaha said something 'bout recertifying the prescriptions," He picked up one bottle, flipping it several times in the air, causing the remaining pills to rattle in the container. "She's supposed to be back by tomorrow."

"How low?"

His brother fired the bottle at him. Deftly, Scott caught it, but was unprepared for the others. Thrown as quickly and precisely as darts, they bombarded him. The bottles fell, rolling and rattling on the floor at his feet.

John smiled, and shook his head in mock pity. "First thing to go is the reflexes," he chided.

Scott ignored him. He picked up two of the bottles–the others escaping his reach at the moment–and automatically checked the labels. Labeled simply "Tracy," with no further identifiers, they bore generic drug names and dosage instructions as prescribed by O. Belagant, DNP. The cephalosporin bottle held two pills, the quinolone bottle, one. He tossed them back to John, then scooped up the remaining bottles.

These had slightly more descriptive labels. The amoxycillin bottle bore four Tracy names; Dad's, his, Virgil's, and Alan's. It was about half full.

The tetracycline bottle had only two names on it, John's and Gordon's. Two pills rattled in the bottle, and Scott stared at it a moment, a distant memory surfacing in his consciousness.

_He had been thirteen, or fourteen, something like that. They'd all come down with some childhood disease–he'd forgotten what–something that one normally prescribed antibiotics for. Onaha kept an assortment of broad-spectrum antibiotics on the island, and had prescribed a penicillin-based one for the problem. But John had reacted to the drug, breaking out in hives after about an hour. Gordon did the same shortly thereafter. That in itself didn't seem to be a problem, until John went into anaphylactic shock moments later. _

_Both his brothers had been airlifted from the island, their father and Onaha accompanying them. Turned out that John was severely allergic to that type of drug, and Gordon was sensitive. He'd never developed the reaction that John had, but Onaha hadn't used penicillin-related drugs on either of them since. _

He flipped the bottles back to John, frowning.

John noted the frown. Guessing its cause, he shrugged. "You worry too much," he told Scott, "You'll be back with the refills in a day or two. We're not going to need anything before then."

"I don't know," said Scott lightly, shaking the memory away, "You know how Gordon can get. You might strangle him by then."

"_He only does it to annoy, because he knows it teases_," John quoted, "We'll be fine."

"Right," said Scott, rolling his eyes. Despite Five's comfortable internal temperature, a chill went down his spine. Ignoring it, he shanghaied Gordon into helping him replace the floor panels.

The RSD ejected from the drive. Scott shoved the last panel in place, and headed for the airlock. He punched in the code for the door mechanism, and the airlock hissed open, displaying the corridor leading to Thunderbird Three. Brains gathered up the drive, and the laptops, then joined Scott. They stepped into the airlock, and closed the door.

Moments later, Thunderbird Three separated from its sister ship, and headed back to Earth.

Author's notes:

DNP: Doctoral Nurse Practitioner. Although the current education level for Nurse Practitioner with prescriptive authority is a Master's Degree plus a special course, there is talk within the nursing profession of making it a Doctoral level position (yes, there are Dr. Nurses. It's an educational level, not exclusive to physicians). I'm personally against it, but am betting that the concept will prevail.


	4. Delta Ori

The takeover of the Armed Services Platform had gone as smoothly as planned. The military post was caught during a night watch, with half its crew asleep. And that late in the rotation, the on-duty crew had been relatively easy to overcome and restrain. They'd confined most of the staff, leaving only one of the station's personnel on the bridge. Vicky could only hope that Jorge and Minette had been equally successful.

Gaia had settled herself at the console controlling the station's computers. ASP–being an internationally staffed military post–had fairly standard codes and commands, and Gaia was soon ensconced in its system

"Here it is!" she said triumphantly. "I have found. . . ." Her voice trailed off, enthusiasm tempered by sudden puzzlement.

"What?" snapped Vicky.

"The problem sector. It is . . . a secure communication system," Gaia said, nonplused, "But to whom?"

"Not Earth?"

"No, it does not have the Earth-to-orbit coding nomenclature. It is station-to-station," said Gaia. Her fingers danced across the keyboard in a percussive accompaniment to her voice. She looked up at the others. "I have not seen this before, and it is secured with a code I do not have."

"Let me see." Rob nodded at Mustaf, then relinquished his guard on the prisoner. He walked over to the station, and leaned over her shoulder, reading the codes displayed "Looks like it's a private network to . . . another station?" He looked at Vicky, shaking his head in disbelief

"Another station?" Brad echoed. He had returned from his sweep of the station, and all personnel were accounted for and secured. "Why would they need a private network to another station? There's only three up here," He also looked at Vicky, his expression challenging. "Right?"

"Apparently not, "she snapped, both flustered by the discovery and trying to hide it. She glanced at the remaining crew member, who looked as puzzled as she felt. "Take him to the holding area, and bring the commanding officer back up here. He must know it. Chang, Mustaf, go with him."

Brad sketched a mocking salute at her, and they left the control center. Vicky turned to Gaia. "Can you finish your calculations?" she said. They still had to secure IWN, and the prospect of another station would necessitate some shifting of her people to cover that position.

"Oh, yes," Gaia assured her.

"Do it," Vicky ordered, "Minette and Jorge are waiting. Then you can finish breaking that system."

The new network was almost in place when Brad and Mustaf returned to the bridge, leaving Chang as guard over their hostages. Brad hadn't brought the officer, but he had brought the code. By what methods it had been acquired, Vicky wasn't going to ask. Gaia keyed it in, and continued with her systems breaking. She hummed as she worked, and the others waited in varying levels of patience.

Finally, the initial screen for the system displayed. Astonished, Gaia stared at the information displayed. "_Ciò è impossibile_," she gasped.

"What?" Curious, the others crowded around the console, jockeying for position in order to see the screen.

"Rob. To the view screens," she said excitedly, her English deteriorating slightly. "Here, to these settings."

He oriented the system as she directed. They watched as the view screen displayed the basic computerized outlines of another station. Not IWN, and not ISS, but a circular shape, its symmetry broken in thirds by two solar arrays and a docking arm

Vicky stared at the screen, the identity of the displayed station failing to register immediately. But the others stirred and murmured, disbelief washed over the group as a whole.

Gaia bounced in the seat. "It can't be. I can't believe it, "she sputtered, over and over.

"Real-time view," Vicky ordered. _This couldn't be._

The screen blinked. Static filled it briefly, while the systems switched over to the outside sensors. Then the image of a gold-and-silver vehicle, crowned with a halo of solar arrays, filled the screen. A ring of oxygen tanks surrounded a central hub, connected to via two junction points, each bearing additional solar arrays, as well as the docking arm. Inscribed on each of those intersections was a large number five.

"Holy shit," breathed Brad, "International Rescue."

"No way," Oden leaned forward, inspecting the view screen.

"Of course!" Rob exclaimed, giving an odd little hop. "Last year. Remember?" He snapped his fingers. "There was some rumor going 'round that someone had attacked their satellite."

Some of the others looked at him curiously, having not heard that particular rumor. Mustaf, however, nodded in agreement.

"They never confirmed or denied that it happened," Rob continued, "But it left open to speculation that that's how they get to situations so quickly." He leaned forward, inspecting the display. "Wow," he added, "It's impressive."

"It makes sense," said Mustaf, "And they've got an arrangement with ASP, then."

"ASP would need to be aware of International Rescue's orbital position," said Rob, still mesmerized by Five's image. "What with all the manned and unmanned stations up here."

Amid the babble of her companions' reactions, Vicky thought furiously. _Leave your options open,_ the General had told her. Had he known? Hastily she sorted through those options. _How many on the station? Why wasn't it in the OSN network? Did it have offensive weapons_? She was willing to bet on defensive, but then–as with the other stations–surprise was on her side. _But four stations? Do I have sufficient people for _this

Indecisive, she watched the display, her thoughts turning toward the potential gains. _Increase the monetary demands, perhaps? A little extra compensation that she would not turn over to the General._ The station moved serenely–almostmockingly–in its orbit. Its axis rotated slightly, displaying the words "Thunderbird 5" on its underside.

Vicky made her decision._ If we don't take it, it could become a staging area for a counterattack. Better that it be under our control._ Looking around at the others, she silenced them with a hand motion.

"Elnoo, head out for IWN" she said, "Take . . ." she paused, and glanced around her personnel as she considered her choices. Chang was stronger, but he was guarding the hostages. If International Rescue not on the OSN system–_and if Gaia doesn't get in from this end_–it would be prudent to send one of her computer experts. And she_ really_ needed Oden at IWN. " . . . Rob, Brad, and Oden."

She looked at her second-in-command, who had raised an eyebrow at her decision. "You stay at IWN, and send Brad and Rob to International Rescue." Her gaze shifted to Elnoo. "And you will return here."

Elnoo turned his sleepy gaze at her and nodded. Rob frowned, a look of concentration on his face, as if he were already in the computer systems for International Rescue. Brad grinned, and cracked his knuckles.

Only Oden's expression was concerned. "Are you sure about this, Vicky?" He glanced around at the small group. "It stretches us where we have need to stand firm."

Angered, she turned on him. "You don't think we can do this?" she retorted.

He raised an eyebrow. "'Can we' is not the question. The question is 'should we'?"

_Normally Oden wasn't so cautious._ Struggling to calm herself, she responded, "Think of the bargaining power. We will have a chip that no one, _no one-"_ she emphasized, "-will expect us to have." Her mind raced ahead, calculating, and she quickly dismissed her second-in-command's comment. "And if we do not take it, it leaves us open to attack. We cannot afford that."

He shrugged, capitulating. Swinging a small backpack onto his back, he nodded to the other three, who did the same. They left the bridge, heading for the landing bay where their ship was docked. Moments later, the station shuddered faintly as the ship and its crew left for its rendevous.

"NO!" Gaia shrieked and pounded the console, startling her fellow operatives. Her fingers moved rapidly across the keyboard. She paused, then exploded with a string of Italian expletives, ending with the phrase "_mucca coperta._"

"What is it?" Vicky asked, unsure if she wanted to hear the translation.

"The system," Gaia spat, turning the word into an epithet. "It has a time limit for entering the code, and has now shut me out." She glanced at Vicky, concern replacing her irritation. "Unless I can break it without making further attempts here, it will have to be reset from the initiating computer."

"And that system is where?" Vicky asked, already dreading the answer.

"On Earth," Gaia confirmed mournfully. She studied the monitor, her fingers drumming impatiently on the console. "Unless," she said thoughtfully, "it can be reset from International Rescue, hm?"

"Of course! Mustaf!" Vicky turned abruptly to the man in question, "Contact the ship, and tell them what has happened." She looked down at Gaia. "Get our system up quickly. We must have contact with the other stations. It may well be that they have that same system."

_This has to work._ She had committed her resources, and could not pull them back, not now. And the General was waiting.

Author's notes:

_Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea culpa_. I should have included these "definitions" after Chapter Two, rather than let you all wonder what we're talking about.

ISS - The International Space Station. Begun in 1999, a joint effort by several nations. I'm giving them all the benefit of the doubt, presuming that it will be essentially finished and running by 2020. Manned (in my story, anyway) by a permanent international crew of four, it's running almost like a college semester system, with additional civilian personnel rotating through on a fluctuating basis.

ASP - Armed Services Platform. A joint military space station, the "newest" of Terran satellites. Finished in 2018, it is manned by an international, rotating crew of 11-13, organized on a Navy watch system, with a commander and two teams. Each team consists of a junior officer, a senior non-commissioned officer, a junior NCO or senior enlisted personnel, and one or two additional enlisted personnel. There are also two medical personnel on board, who pull twelve-hour shifts.

ASP and IR have a courtesy agreement, in that ASP's CO (who undergoes VERY stringent security checks because of this) is aware of Thunderbird Five's existence and orbit (so they don't bump into each other!). ASP and IR have a private network, unaccessible by other satellites.

IWN - International World News. The smallest of the satellites, it is the brainchild of an up-and-coming news network whose latest gimmick is that they are "real" satellite news, as evidenced by their satellite. They keep a crew of two on board.


	5. Episilon Ori

"Warning! Unauthorized intruders!"

Half-asleep, John slapped at the nonexistent alarm clock. "So what's an authorized intruder?" he muttered.

The alarm broke off momentarily. "Authorized intruders list," the computer intoned, "Tracy, Scott. Tracy, Virgil. Tracy, Gordon. Tracy . . . "

"Okay, okay," John groaned. He glanced at the other bunk, hoping Gordon hadn't heard. "Cancel report."

"Report canceled," the computer stated. The warning began again. "Unauthorized intruders! Warning!"

The warning finally penetrated John's sleep-fogged brain. "Oh, crap," he muttered, flinging off the light blanket and grabbing his discarded jumpsuit. _Who the hell would be trying to get aboard Thunderbird Five? _Not anyone from International Rescue. As the computer had pointed out, they were "authorized intruders," although he'd need the help of every deity ever worshiped if Dad found that out.

"What's going on?" Gordon drowsed. Slower to wake than his brother, he peered at John groggily.

"Alert," said John abruptly, "Someone's trying to dock."

As he fastened the jumpsuit, he felt the familiar thump of a spaceship locking onto Five's docking arm. Unlike the smooth whirr of Three's docking, the clamps groaned and ground their way to connection.

He hurried to the control center. There were probably only seconds before whoever was out there overrode the codes with the emergency signal. John hesitated briefly. _A report to Tracy Island, or code lockout? _If it were an emergency, well, International Rescue was supposed to deal with those. But if it wasn't . . .

Decision made, John hit the home frequency. If it was a true emergency, someone would have to bring up Three and take whomever it was back to Earth.

"Thunderbird Five to Tracy Island."

No answer. _Well, not surprising._ Five's computer indicated that its counterpart on the island was in passive monitoring, with recording systems on. Not unusual for the middle of the night. _Hopefully, that damned glitch won't show its face now._

"Tracy Island, I've got an intruder alert going. Could be that someone had a problem, and Five's the nearest sanctuary, but. . . ."

The airlock blasted open, interrupting his report. Instinctively, John turned toward that area. "What the–."

"Close the channel."

Two men stood just inside the airlock door. One held a pistol; a dangerous enough piece in the vacuum of space. The other appeared unarmed. They separated as they moved forward, making it difficult for John to watch both of them.

His hand moved behind him, reaching for the "panic button." It had been one of the modifications made since the last attack on Five, when it took several precious seconds to manually call the island for help. The comm line was still open, and he mentally crossed his fingers that it would stay open, and not develop its glitch again.

"Close the channel. And move away from there."

John hit the button.

The formerly unarmed man _moved_, so quickly that John had no time to react. From the proverbial nowhere, a large military knife appeared. He slammed John back against the control panel, grabbing him by the throat.

Initially, the man's grasp was light, more a warning than anything else. A knife rested just above the hand. Momentarily panicked, John grabbed for both knife and grip. The hold on his throat tightened, and he gasped for air. The knife pressed in. It forced his head back, further exposing his throat. His vision blurred, and he clawed at the grip.

"You better start listening," the man told him.

"Okay," John choked. Against his instinct–and better judgement–he removed his hands from the vise at his throat. Spreading them in a gesture of surrender, he forced himself to hold still, gasping for what breath he could.

The grip loosened slightly, and the man chuckled. "You're learning . . . John," he said, having noted the name tag on the uniform "Now shut off your comm link. And the damned alarm." Both the knife and the hand remained in position.

John didn't comply immediately, concentrating instead on sucking air into his lungs. When he'd reached a point where the universe was no longer in danger of whitening out on him, he felt carefully for the comm link button, then the alarm, flipping both to the "off" position.

The man pulled him upright, then shoved him into the chair. "Sit there and don't move." He crossed behind him and stood, one hand resting on John's shoulder, and the knife's blade laying casually along the other.

Unconsciously, John pulled at the collar of his uniform, still feeling a phantom grip about his throat. He watched as the second man moved forward, inspecting the control panel.

That man glanced back at the first man, then laid the handgun on the panel. His fingers flew through a series of movements, then paused. He scrutinized both panel and screens, then turned to his companion. "Not government," he said, "the commands aren't working."

"Private sector?" the first mused, "I thought we'd checked all those, Rob." Grabbing his captive under the chin, he forced John's head back. Looking down at him, the man asked, "What's your OSN code?"

Instinctively, John grabbed at the man's arm, hoping to dislodge the grip. He succeeded, only to the extent that the chair–not properly latched previously–overturned, sending both his captor and him to the floor. John scrambled to his feet, and bolted back toward the sleeping quarters.

He didn't make it. From the floor, his opponent kicked out, throwing him off-balance. He stumbled, losing precious seconds, then recovered. But by then Brad had regained both his feet and his hostage, swinging the latter into the bulkhead.

The impact stunned him. In that instance of immobility, a fist slammed into his abdomen. A second blow doubled him over. John dropped to his knees, struggling for breath.

He was hauled to his feet, and deposited non-too-gently against the bulkhead.

"Not a smart move," the first man said. He stepped away momentarily, and retrieved the fallen knife. He moved in again, bracing his hand hard against John's shoulder. "I thought you were gonna listen." The knife paused before John's face.

Break/break/break/shouldbewhitespaceherebutFFNwillnotallowit/break/break/break

Gordon's reaction was definitely slower than his brother's. John was dressed and in the control center, before Gordon had located his discarded uniform. _That's the difference in spending six months a year up here, rather than two, _he groused He was more attuned to the alarms on the island than those on Five.

He was almost at the doorway, when the voice stopped him. It stripped him of the last remnants of sleep as effectively as a cold shower.

"Close the channel. And move away from there."

Scuffling sounds. He heard the thud of a body hitting the control panel, then a gasp. Gordon moved back into the shadows of the room.

"You'd better start listening."

He didn't wait to hear John's answer. Backing away from the door, he headed for the storage locker, and opened the door as silently as possible. He checked first the top shelf, then–not finding his objective there–crouched down, digging through the contents scattered on the floor. His hand closed around a hard case, fingers tracing its outline, confirming it was the object of his search. He pulled the case from the locker, and opened it.

The contents had been the subject of a few heated discussions. John had been vehemently against its presence on Thunderbird Five, citing the potential problems and illogic of having a gun on a space station. Jeff and Scott had been just as adamant about having some type of defensive weapon on each of the Thunderbirds, Five included. Virgil had waffled on the issue and Brains had abstained, after pointing out that they had no effective alternate choice yet. Not actively involved in International Rescue at the time, neither Gordon and Alan had been consulted.

John had been overruled. Guns had gone to Five and each of her sister ships, and the brothers were trained to use the weapons. He smiled briefly, remembering that training. Unlike the 'birds themselves, which his three older brothers rotated as instructors along with their father, Jeff–and Jeff alone–taught weapons, one-on-one. He gave no quarter, not during training, nor at their yearly qualification. _Alan was in for a surprise there._

The alarm fell silent, startling him. His fingers moved over the weapon, checking the safety, then loading ammunition into it. Then he stood, his breathing slow and steady, focusing on his half-formed plan, and moved toward the door.

Another crash interrupted his progress. _Sounds like John's putting up a fight._ He took a deep breath, then stepped into the situation.

His brother was restrained by two men, one of whom was holding a knife in front of John. The other didn't appear to have a weapon. Gordon moved quietly forward, stopping just beyond arm's length, and said, "Let him go."

Their attention turned toward him. "Put it down, Junior," said the unarmed man, releasing his hold, and turning to face Gordon.

"Let him go," repeated Gordon.

The knife-welder smiled. "Put it down," he said. The knife rotated smoothly until it rested at John's throat. "You can shoot both of us, but I guarantee your buddy'll be dead before you finish." The knife tilted slightly, forcing an inarticulate sound from John. "Your choice, kid."

"Kill him, and there goes your best shot at running this station," Gordon warned.

"Gord, don't." Much as John appreciated his brother's gamble; if these guys thought Gordon had no value to them, they'd kill him without a second thought.

"Drop the gun," said Brad. The knife scored a shallow cut just above John's collar, and he grabbed at that hand, struggling against the pressure of the knife. Gordon hesitated.

"Last chance," Rob said, sensing Gordon's uncertainty. He stepped away from the other two, moving toward Gordon. He glanced back at his partner. "Brad. . . ."

Gordon fired.

Surprised by the impact, long seconds passed before he realized that it was not the kick of the handgun, but a tackle from Rob that knocked him over. Gordon rolled with the hit, losing both his attacker and his grip on the gun. The weapon skittered across the floor, away from all participants.

He scrambled after it, and had barely got hold of the handgrip when it slid from his grasp. Gordon grabbed for it, engaging in a brief tug-of-war for possession. He glanced up at his rival, his eyes meeting John's. With an enigmatic smile, his brother released the weapon. Gordon scrambled to one knee, angling himself so that John was behind him.

Scanning the control room for damage, he speculated where the bullet had gone. _No alarms. The bulkheads are holding._ He wondered briefly why John had relinquished the weapon to him, then dismissed the thought, concentrating instead on their opponents.

"You son-of-a-bitch," Brad said. Gordon wasn't sure what he'd managed to hit, but at least it had caused Brad to drop the knife. "I ought to-"

"Drop it," said his partner, to all of them. Rather than fight Gordon and John for the possession of their weapon, Rob had simply retreated, and retrieved his pistol from the control panel. And the brothers were positioned such that he could cover both easily.

"Shit," Gordon muttered. Their opponents were far enough apart that he couldn't cover both. He broke his two-handed grip on the gun, spread his hands apart, and carefully laid the weapon on the deck. "We're screwed," he muttered to John.

"Definitely," said John softly from behind him, "Damn."

"Sit back down by your buddy," Rob told Gordon. He turned back to the console.

Gordon complied, sitting cross-legged, and watched the two men warily. Beside him, John sighed and leaned back into the bulkhead, knees drawn up and arms resting on top of them. His eyes closed, as they often did when he was thinking.

Brad retrieved the gun Gordon had surrendered. He tucked it into his belt, alongside the knife. Blood trickled down his injured hand, and it appeared that the bullet had gone through the hand. He examined the injury, then looked at the brothers and asked, "You got a first aid kit on board?"

"Over there." Gordon jerked his thumb toward the airlock.

"Get it."

"Get it yourself," Gordon retorted, in no mood to be cooperative.

The man looked down at him, obviously exasperated, and withdrew the knife. "You're testing my patience, kid. And I don't have a lot." He grabbed Gordon by the shirtfront, hauling him upright. "Maybe you'd like an example."

"Gordon." John cautioned.

Glaring into Brad's face, Gordon nodded curtly. The man released him, leaving smeared bloodstains on the front of his uniform. He watched as Gordon walked over to the locker. He retrieved a smaller kit from it, and returned. He set the container on raised platform of the control center.

"Open it," the man said, watching carefully as Gordon did so. He extended his injured hand, and ordered, "Wrap it up."

Gordon sorted through the items he needed. As John had pointed out earlier, the antibiotics were low, so hopefully this character wouldn't need any. He knew Scott had planned to bring up more supplies–medical as well as other–when he returned. At that time, it hadn't seemed like a big deal. But now. . . .

He bandaged the man's hand, using a topical antibiotic. As he closed the kit, Brad said casually, "You got any antibiotics in there?"

"What?"

The man looked at Gordon condescendingly. "You just put a bullet through my hand, Junior," he said, "And while bullets can be sterilized in the barrel, I'd just as soon not take any chances that it brought along some nasty little buddies with it." The knife pointed toward the kit. "So. . . ."

"Not in here," said Gordon. He looked back at the locker, then cursed himself for doing so, as Brad's gaze had followed his. Reluctantly, he got up and walked back to the locker, pulling out the antibiotics' bin. Following an instinct he couldn't quite name, he pulled out the amoxycillin bottle. Brad extended his hand again, palm up, waiting. Gordon walked back, and handed the bottle to him.

Brad casually glanced at the label. Then he twisted off the cover, shook out two pills and dry-swallowed them. Replacing the cover, he tucked the bottle into his pocket, smiling sardonically at Gordon.

"If you're done getting doctored," Rob interrupted from the control panel, "I still need the OSN code. Vicky's gonna be pissed if we don't report in soon." He scowled. "And this system is definitely non-standard."

Brad looked from Gordon to John, considering. Having made his choice, he said to Gordon. "Sit this one out, Junior." He gestured to John. "You."

John rose slowly, and moved toward the console. "We don't have an OSN code," he said.

"No tricks," warned Brad. Casually toying with his knife, he loomed over Gordon.

"No trick," John said, "We were granted an exemption." Settling cautiously in the chair, he typed a command into the system. An error message displayed briefly. Then the screen flickered, blinked once, then went blank. _This is _not_ the time,_ John silently told the computer. He rested his hands on the edge of the console, steadying himself.

"What did you do?" Rob demanded, grabbing him by the shoulder and yanking him around. There was an enraged sound from Gordon, muting his own exclamation.

John recoiled. "I didn't," he said, "We've got a problem with our computers, and we haven't been able to pin it down."

"What about that other system?"

_So that's how they found us. _Turning back to the console, he keyed the appropriate commands. Another error message appeared on the screen. "That's not right," he muttered, and looked up at Rob. "The other system is in lockout," he said. "And it can only be reset from its primary system." He drew a deep breath, winced again, and added, "On Earth."

"Damn," said Rob, in frustration "This complicates things."

"A bit," John agreed.

Infuriated, Rob backhanded him, rocking John in the chair. This time the latches held, and the blow slammed him into it, snapping his head back. The movement wrenched a groan from him.

Protesting, Gordon reflexively scrambled to his feet. He hesitated, when Brad slowly waggled the knife in front of him.

"Get back over there," Rob snarled at both of them.

John's face paled as he stood. He started back toward Gordon, then stopped, swaying. His hand dropped from his shoulder, and he reached toward the wall for support. His eyes closed.

"John?" Gordon asked, "You okay?" His stomach tightened as he stepped toward his brother, shaking off Brad's restraining hand.

"Not exactly," was the response. John staggered, then crumpled into Gordon's arms.


	6. Zeta Ori

Cradling his unconscious brother, Gordon saw the small hole in the shoulder of the white and red uniform, framed in the wrong shade of red. Horrified, he settled John on the deck, and hurriedly opened the fasteners of the jumpsuit. _Oh, shit, no! Please! _he begged silently. His fingers fumbled as they tugged at the fabric, pulling it back.

Underneath the jumpsuit, John's white turtleneck was also stained. It bore a matching hole to the one in the jumpsuit, with a wider border of that same red. Gordon tore at the fabric, but it resisted his attempts. He rose, and after a quick glance at Brad–who gestured permission–went to the medical kit. Grabbing the items he needed, he returned to his brother.

John's eyelids fluttered. Gordon cut through the shirt, pulling the pieces away from the wound. Automatically, he reached for the gauze pads, wiping away the blood in order to see the site.

_I'm sorry,_ his mind chanted, _I didn't mean to._ He'd said those words often enough during his lifetime. After practical jokes gone wrong, and even those that had gone "right" but the recipient–or Dad–didn't appreciate the subtlety of said joke. _I didn't try to hit you, John. Please, please be okay._

He grabbed for the antiseptic, his hands shaking as he opened the bottle. It spilled, adding its orange stain to John's shirt. The new stains spread, seeping into the old, creating an odd, rusty color.

_You just don't want to admit how rusty you are. . . . _Scott's words came flooding from his memory. A surge of panic rose inside, and he desperately wished Scott were here now._ Or better yet, Dad._ He paused, and shut his eyes, his mind jumping between thoughts. _Something that Kyrano had said, when he was teaching them first aid. What was it?_ His own breathing slowed as he tried to remember, and the adrenaline deluge subsided. _Oh, yeah. In an emergency, the first thing you do is check your own pulse._ He opened his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he poured the antiseptic onto a piece of gauze, and dabbed at the wound.

The sting of the antiseptic caused John to flinch. "Whoa, easy," Gordon said, setting the bottle down. His free hand moved to his brother's chest, not so much holding him down as it was steadying him, and continued to dab at the area. This elicited a gasp from John, and his eyes opened, initially blank with shock. Realization slowly settled in them, and Gordon recoiled.

By deliberately focusing on the wound, Gordon managed to evade his brother's perusal. He grabbed for a topical antibiotic, then ripped open more packages of large gauze pads. Laying several of the squares on the wound, he held them with one hand, then realized that the tape had rolled away. Silently cursing, he reached for the errant item, which lay just beyond his fingertips. He adjusted his hold on the gauze, and tried again.

A hand nudged his aside, and Gordon froze. Slowly, he faced his brother, reluctantly meeting John's gaze. He hesitated, struggling against a rush of guilt and remorse. "John." His voice caught as he spoke, then the words poured out. "I didn't mean . . . I wasn't trying to. . . to . . .oh, _God,_ John, I'm sorry. "

"Pure dumb luck," John said, with a ghost of his usual smile. "I forgot to duck." He held the gauze while Gordon retrieved the roll of tape.

Gordon secured the edges of the gauze, then helped John to a sitting position. Belatedly, he remembered to check for an exit wound. There was none. _That was good, and not good._ Good, because he didn't have to worry about a second wound site. Bad, because the bullet was still in John, along with whatever it had carried in with it.

"Hey, Gordon."

"What?" He looked at John apprehensively.

John tapped his uniform lightly. "White," he said, in a blatant attempt to distract his brother, "Good guy. And next time _you_ can get hurt, okay?"

In spite of his trepidation, Gordon snorted "But you do such a good job at it," he managed to retort. He pulled John's uniform back over the wounded shoulder, and felt his brother shudder.

"Hah," was John's response, "I've done my share already." He winced as he settled back against the bulkhead.

"Yeah," Gordon continued, "I think I'll put your name on the sling. You're the only one who's ever used it."

John laughed, then coughed, curling up slightly. "Oh, god, Gordy," he said, "Don't make me laugh."

_Painkillers,_ thought Gordon, _I should've given him some. And antibiotics. And the sling._ He stood, and headed back to the locker, digging in the bin that held the prescription medicines. The amount left in the tetracycline bottle worried him, as did that in the codeine bottle. He considered the other antibiotics, a vague remembrance of something Ohana had drilled into them.

_John and Gordon _cannot_ use the penicillin-related drugs, she had stressed. And the cephalosporin-related drugs _could_ cause the same reactions, so avoid them if possible._

That left the quinolone, which he wasn't sure about. Two pills, total, then. Twenty-four hours' worth, maybe. Gordon wasn't sure if that would be enough to stave off any infection John might develop from the wound._ Like trying to hold off Scott with one punch, _he thought grimly. He took the tetracycline bottle, palmed one pill, and tucked the bottle into his pocket. Then he picked up the codeine bottle, and removed two pills from it.

"What're you up to, Junior?"

Gordon started guiltily. He replaced the bin, and turned toward Brad. "I'm just getting some pills for my. . ." he hesitated, "my friend." _No sense in giving them any leverage_. He juggled the pills in his hand, then opened it, revealing only two of them. "Just something for the pain."

"Got anything good in there?" Brad asked. He wandered up behind Gordon, inspecting the interior of the locker. Gordon moved aside, allowing him access to the area.

Rob turned from the console, glaring at them. "Keep your mind on business," he snapped.

"Chill out," Brad responded laconically, continuing to poke about in the kit, "You made contact yet?"

"Yeah." His partner faced them, leaning casually against the console "Oden's checked in at IWN. They should broadcast the first message within the hour. After that, we got . . ." he checked his chronograph ". . . maybe ninety minutes before we go on air."

"Plenty of time," Brad said. His attention shifted, and he scowled. "Hey, Junior."

Partway to the galley, Gordon stopped, and looked at him. "I'm getting some water," he explained.

The man walked over to him, the knife coming to rest with its point at the right side of Gordon's jaw. "You don't move unless I say so," he said softly, as if explaining to a wayward child, "I don't want you running around where I can't see you." He smiled, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "Got that?"

Gordon looked at him, refusing to answer. The knife tip traced a path under his chin, scoring just enough at one area to cause a shallow cut, then paused.

He didn't remember making any sound. But there was an exclamation behind him, and movement of some sort. He heard Rob caution, "Don't," and the soft snick of a hammer drawing back. It was followed by a sharp intake of breath–from John, he guessed.

Unsure of whom the gun was pointed at, Gordon remained where he was, his gaze fixed on his opponent's face. His fingers curled around the pills, rolling them as he waited.

"Brad, for cryin' out loud," said Rob. He gestured at John. "Vicky's pissed already that this happened." Scowling at his partner, he added, "Word gets out, somebody will figure that they can risk a rescue."

The two men held their locked gaze a moment longer. "You're pushin' my buttons, Junior," Brad warned. "Keep it up, and. . . ." He paused, his gaze flicking over to John. It returned to Gordon, and he smiled humorlessly. "I'll put your buddy out of my misery."

Gordon didn't respond. The knife dropped away, and Brad stepped back, leaving room for him to pass. He did so, hastily grabbing a bottled something from the small refrigerator in the galley, before returning to John.

"Here," he said, handing him the pills. He settled down next to his brother, and wrestled with the bottle cap. Once the seal was broken, he passed the bottle to John.

His brother took it, inspected it briefly and sniffed at it, before washing the pills down. Gordon reddened, but it had been an unopened bottle, and he was probably safe. _It was easier to find the bottles Scott used, anyway. _

He watched John recap the bottle, and tuck it between them. "What d'ya think they want?" Gordon asked.

John shrugged, and immediately regretted the movement. "Ransom, maybe," he said. The cumulative effects of choking, beating, and gunshot wound were making themselves felt, and he shifted, seeking a more comfortable position. It didn't help. "If they've got control of ASP and IWN, they've probably got ISS as well." He shivered, and closed his eyes, curling in on himself.

Gordon whistled silently. The concept, at least, was impressive. _They've got the world in a choke hold, especially with ASP._ Like Thunderbird Five, the Armed Services Platform had what were defined as "defensive" weapons, intended for deflecting rogue asteroids and such. Unlike Five's though, ASP's were probably much more obvious and accessible. The threat of turning them on Earth had been the strongest argument for the station's international, rotating staff.

The threat of those weapons would also make it difficult to launch any Earth-based rescue to the involved stations. Between ASP and Thunderbird Five, their sensors would detect any attempt, and ASP could easily blast it from the atmosphere. So could Five, _if _they found her weapons.

Gordon glanced at their "guests." The one, Brad, stood a casual watch over them, toying with the knife. The other was at the control console, poking about the systems, and muttering curses as he worked.

His attention wandered back to John. Normally the fairest of the five of them, he seemed paler, at least to Gordon. _Or was it my imagination? _He hoped John wasn't losing too much blood, although it was hard to tell. And he had this nagging feeling, as if he'd forgotten something. First aid was not his strong point; on missions, Dad and Virgil–or John, when he was down from Five–usually took care of that.

He shuddered, causing John to glance at him. Gordon shook his head, and looked away, still struggling with his guilt. _If I hadn't tried to play hero, John wouldn't've gotten hurt. Shot,_ he corrected himself_. Whatever else happens, _that_ was my fault._

And there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

Author's notes:

Rating addendum–Ah, whump. grin Did I mention that there was whump?

For those who are interested, "Orion Armed: behind the scenes" has started posting at Fictionpress' site. Same author name, under "Essays."


	7. Eta Ori

On ASP's bridge, Vicky moved from station to station, trying to hide the fact that she was pacing. The situation over at International Rescue had unnerved her, for the General had insisted that there be no errors with this mission. A vague, unidentifiable feeling nagged her, bubbling just under her subconscious. Unable to define the feeling, she buried it instead, and simply refused to deal with it at all.

She leaned over Gaia, watching her subordinate struggle with code-breaking _sans_ computer. Gaia smiled apologetically and shrugged. "Easy, it is not," she apologized, "I did not expect such an archaic means of prevention." She looked down at her calculations, a small frown tugged at her face. It cleared, and she looked speculatively at Vicky. "Perhaps," she suggested, "if you made the reset a part of the initial demands?"

"I will consider it," Vicky promised. Actually, the idea made sense. _And it might be a way of covering what had happened on International Rescue's station. _"How is our own network doing?"

"Contact was made with ISS," Gaia responded, "I wait on Oden's signal from IWN, then we can broadcast the second message."

"Good," said Vicky. She moved on, leaving Gaia to her problem-solving.

Mustaf monitored communications, both station-to-station and Earth-bound. He smiled at Vicky, and shook his head, indicating no problems there. Oden had reported no problems with IWN's employees since that station was secured. And Jorge and Minette had no difficulties at ISS. That station had been minus one caretaker, leaving only three on the station.

Vicky smiled to herself. The update on International Rescue's presence had provoked much the same reaction from them as it had from those on ASP. Unlike Oden, though, Jorge and Minette had been enthusiastically in favor of adding that station to their holdings.

She moved over to the final station. Like most of ASP's other systems, the weapons system had been easy to break into, and Elnoo monitored them closely. Any attempt from Earth could be quickly dealt with. And the ability to target any of the hostage space stations from orbit, rested in their hands alone.

Vicky had made four circuits of the bridge before realizing what she was doing. She halted, remaining in one position for several moments, then glanced at her chronograph. With twenty minutes to go before they made their announcement, she knew she could not stay motionless. Yet to continue pacing–for that's what it was–would only increase her subordinates' edginess.

"I am going to inspect the prisoners," she announced. _Let Chang know that he had not been forgotten, although it was Brad who should have been there. _"Mustaf, you are in charge until I return. Contact ISS and inform Jorge and Minette of the change in plans. We send the message as soon as Oden signals from ITW."

Break/break/break/shouldbewhitespaceherebutff.nwillnotallowit/break/break/break

He'd spent the morning in his room, "noodling"–as one of his former music teachers would have put it. Satellite radio provided a classical music background, as he was too lazy to search for specific recordings in his collection. And the electronic keyboard in his room provided the means to improvise against the set melodies from the speakers.

The keyboard wasn't as good as the grand piano would have been. But the piano was in the great room, openly accessible to everyone–including Alan. And Virgil'd had enough of his youngest brother's pestering for flight time, especially after yesterday. _Let Scott deal with him._ He'd retreated behind closed doors, and, a closed door wasn't a thing lightly broached.

There were times he envied John the regular solitude of being on Five. His own rotations had been relatively peaceful, and the down times allowed him to play with his music or art, depending on which he'd brought with him. But a month's–two months total each year–isolation was about all he could handle.

His fingers idly wandered over the keyboard, inventing and embroidering a counter melody to the current piece on the radio, when the recording was interrupted.

"We interrupt this program for a special news bulletin." The announcer–who normally did nothing more than state the composer and name of the current piece–sounded shaken. "We have received word that all the orbital satellites have been taken over by hostile forces. We will bring you updates as we receive them."

The improvisation halted abruptly, his fingers frozen on the keys. _No way,_ he thought, _not _all_ of them_. He waited for the announcer to continue, but the radio had resumed its interrupted programming. Stunned, Virgil stared at the radio, then turned off the keyboard.He hurried from his room.

Heading for Dad's office, he collided with Alan, who had been lurking purposely outside Virgil's room. "What the he-?"

"Hey, Virgil." Somewhat contrite, yet bent on wheedling more flight time from his brother, Alan hadn't yet mastered the trick of hiding his feelings in his expression. "Look, about yesterday. I didn't-" He broke off as Virgil ignored him and hurried down the hall.

Scrambling after him, Alan caught up to his brother in the dining room near the ramp to their father's office. He grabbed for Virgil's arm, but only succeeded in getting a handful of shirt. It was enough to slow Virgil, though. He turned fluidly, his forearm hitting Alan's with sufficient force to release the hold.

"Virgil?" Surprised at his brother's action, Alan couldn't think of anything to do but follow.

Their father was at his desk, papers related to various Tracy holdings scattered about it. He looked up sharply at them when they burst through the doorway, annoyed at being interrupted by what appeared to be a continuing sibling altercation.

"Dad!" Apprehension caused Virgil's voice to falter, "The radio. A takeover on the stations." He paused, taking a couple of breaths to steady himself, and to pull his report together. "They broke in with an announcement about somebody taking over the space stations."

"What can we do about that?" Alan said, misunderstanding his brother's concern. "It isn't like it's . . ."

Jeff silenced him with a gesture, earning a resentful look from that son. "Are you sure?" he asked, looking intently at Virgil.

They locked gazes for a moment. Then Virgil nodded, answering the question that hadn't been vocalized. "It didn't say much. Just a 'news bulletin'."

Confused, Alan looked from one to the other. Moments passed, and neither spoke.

His father turned to the single monitor on his desk. Leaning forward, he touched a button on the screen. The displayed document vanished, replaced by static framed with the communications systems border. Jeff glanced at the lower right corner of the screen. He frowned and tapped the button again, with the same results.

He glanced back at Virgil, then flipped a second switch. "Brains, Scott," he said firmly, "Come up to the office." He reached under the desk, activating the switch that released the scanner for hand print identification, and laid his hand on the pad.

The transformation of the room from office to control center was complete by the time Brains and Scott arrived. Unsuccessful at contacting Thunderbird Five, Jeff had moved on to examining the transmission log for the station. Brains went immediately to that area.

Scott moved to the monitor where his brothers stood. "What's up?" he asked.

Alan was hanging over Virgil's shoulder, both of them scanning commercial broadcasts for any further news regarding the bulletin. He looked up at Scott. "Possible takeover of the space stations," he said, "Virgil heard something and we're looking for details."

"No way." Scott said in disbelief. He positioned himself so as to read over Virgil's other side. _"All_ of them?"

"Hope not," Virgil said absently, his concentration on the screen in front of him.

Alan looked from one to the other, his mind finally making the connection he hadn't–_or wouldn't_–made earlier. "You don't think that . . ." His voice trailed off; he _definitely_ didn't want to finish that thought.

"Let's hope not," Scott echoed.

"But we . . . ," Alan sputtered, shaking his head in denial, "we should've heard an alarm or something. Shouldn't we?"

"Yeah," said Scott, glancing at the now-silent monitor. "We should've. Unless-"

Virgil looked up at them sharply, with a _don't-say-it_ expression. Scott grimaced, cutting off both sentence and thought. They continued scanning the video feeds in silence, accompanied only by the hum of the computers and the muffed discussion between Jeff and Brains. Kyrano slipped quietly into the room, moving to a position behind Jeff.

"Got it!" Virgil exclaimed. He keyed up the station he'd found.

The screen displayed a quartered montage of the involved stations, with International Rescue's logo substituting for an image of Thunderbird Five. Obviously, there was no video transmission, only audio. "This is the Earth Liberation Front," the voice–low, accented, and definitely feminine–announced, "We have gained possession of the following manned satellites: the International Space Station, the International World News satellite, the Armed Services Platformand International Rescue's space station. All are now under our control." The speaker paused. "Required from each parent organization is one billion dollars plus-"

"_Each?"_ Alan yelped. Virgil nudged him quiet, ignoring the look Scott shot them. It wasn't directed at them, per se, but the broadcast.

"-one million per operative. In addition, the following nations will turn over. . . ." Her voice went on, listing demands and conditions.

Ignoring that portion of the broadcast, Scott turned from the video feed in frustration. "How'd they get on board?" he demanded. "How'd they even know where to find her?"

"Pure dumb luck?" Virgil offered. He looked up from the console, where he and Alan continued to monitor the broadcast. "Maybe visual contact when they were taking over one of the other stations?"

"It's possible," Jeff said. He glanced at the transmissions log from Five. "John left a partial message early this morning, about someone trying to dock with Five, but it was interrupted. Communications were shut down after that." He glanced again at computer screen which normally monitored Five's communications.

"Thunderbird Five does have the Emergency Code Override in its docking protocol," Brains reminded them, his characteristic stutter more pronounced than usual, "All orbital satellites are required to have it."

"ASP," Jeff mused, "It had to be. They're the only one who monitors her position. And the emergency override is the only way anyone else could've boarded her."

"So what're we gonna do?" Scott asked, bringing the topic back to the salient point.

"Shh," Alan interrupted, directing attention back to the news video. "Listen."

"All stations will be allowed contact with their parent organizations at 2035 Zulu time. Contact will be made at the United Nations Headquarters, and at that site only. This will be the only time any contact will be allowed" The voice stopped, then continued. "Prior to that, the Armed Services Platform will have a certain program reset at its Earth origin. If this is not done by contact time, there will be . . . ." the voice stopped again, " . . .repercussions" The recording stopped, and the news announcer stepped in smoothly. He reminded viewers that commercial flights were grounded because of the situation, then initiated a panel discussion regarding the situation.

Concerned, Jeff exchanged glances with Brains. _How did they find that? _He gestured for the video to be turned off.

Deliberately, Jeff looked at the group in the control center. "With commercial air traffic grounded, and only us . . ." he paused, ". . . six available, we're short-handed." He considered his options. "Brains, you and I will head to the UN Headquarters. I have a feeling if we fail to check in, it won't be good for Five."

He paused again, his gaze falling on the framed pictures on his desk, then turned his attention back to three in front of him. "Scott, you, Virgil, and. . .," hesitated, debating. But there really wasn't any choice. " . . .Alan, take Thunderbird Three and recon the situation," He looked pointedly them. "Preferably without getting shot down by ASP."

"F.A.B.," Scott said. The three headed for the turbo lifts.

"Scott." Jeff's voice was soft, but it stopped his eldest son, turning him back to face his father. Virgil and Alan were already at the lifts, out of earshot. "Do nothing to endanger _any_ of your brothers."

Resentment flashed briefly across Scott's face. It was followed by acknowledgment, then resolve. "Yes, sir," he said, his answer equally soft, and dangerous. Their gazes locked for a moment. Then Scott dropped his and joined his brothers at the lifts.

Jeff couldn't bring himself to say the words he'd said so often. He merely nodded. The screens dropped into place, and the lifts whined. When they fell silent, he turned to Kyrano. "You'll have to man communications here," he said.

"Of course, Mr. Tracy."

Jeff nodded his thanks. "Brains, I'll meet you at the landing strip." Commercial air flight bans or not, nothing would keep him from that rendevous at the UN.


	8. Theta Ori

It felt odd–no,actually it felt _wrong_–to be seated in the command seat of Thunderbird Three. That was his father's position, not his. Feeling extremely uncomfortable, Scott shifted in the chair. He ran through the pre-flight checks automatically, trading questions and responses with Virgil, while his mind worried elsewhere.

Equally wrong was seeing Virgil in the pilot's seat, with Alan as the copilot. Thunderbird Three was Gordon's baby, and had been ever since he had officially joined International Rescue. When he wasn't playing with Four, anyway. Virgil, or John–and he winced at the thought of his missing brothers–normally flew as her copilot. Alan hadn't even finished checking out on Two. And he wasn't qualified on Three at all, having only flown her minimally in simulation.

But neither John nor Gordon were here. Both were hostages to some idiotic group and its outrageous demands.

Scott watched his youngest brother closely, double-checking Alan's work between his own calculations. Alan's moves were hesitant as he went through the checks, knowing that this was not simulation, and–should he make a mistake–there would be no computer stepping in to correct him. He and Virgil conferred softly, Virgil also rechecking Alan's settings when he could.

And while Three was able to fly with a single pilot in an emergency, she did her best with a crew of three._ Two-and-a-half is what you get, girl,_ Scott thought. At a nod from Virgil, he pressed the communications switch. "Thunderbird Three is go," he reported.

"Acknowledged." Even Kyrano's voice on the other end was wrong. It should have been Brains.

"Retros," Scott ordered.

"Retros go," Virgil replied. He glanced over at Alan, grim-faced.

Alan returned the look with a hesitant smile. "Guidance system, green," he reported. Three's computer system echoed that statement a moment later.

"Computer does that one, Sprout." Virgil's smile was brief and humorless, and Alan flushed in embarrassment.

"Fire 'em up," Scott said, "Let's roll." The atmosphere in the 'bird shifted, and he felt, rather than heard, the slow rumble of the boosters. _Like cranking up a massive sub-woofer to the max. _Thunderbird Three shuddered, and gracefully lifted clear of the launch tube.

Although his body was held back into the seat by the gravitational forces of lift off, Scott's mind was definitely not secured. Recriminations danced through his mind. _I should've made John come back with us, _he argued to himself._ But then Gordon would have been there alone. Maybe we should've stayed. With four of us, there might've been a chance. _

"Launch site cleared," Alan reported.

"Max thrust," Scott said, grimly, "Heat 'em up, Virg."

_They'd better be all right._

break/break/break/shouldbewhitespaceherebutff.nwillnotallowit/break/break/break

The room allotted at the United Nations Headquarters was crowded with representatives from the companies whose satellites were occupied, as well as families involved. But still, Jeff felt distinctively in the minority. He and Brains moved through the crowd, edging toward a monitor.

"Jeff? Jeff Tracy?" A familiar voice reached across the babble. A female figure in US Army Class A's and gold oak leaves on her epaulets moved toward them. Her nameplate read "Jaimesen."

"Erin," Jeff said, recognizing the woman, a former employee of ISA. He waited until she had reached them

"I'd hug you, but that'd be a PDA," she said, brightly, "It's been a long time, Jeff. How are the boys? What brings you here?"

"I'm here as a representative of International Rescue," he said, the half-lie rising easily. "Erin, let me introduce you to an associate of mine, Hiram Hackenbacker, also from International Rescue. Brains," he turned toward the man, "This is Major Erin Jaimesen, United States Army. We met when I was still working for the ISA."

"Pleased to met you," said Brains.

One eyebrow raised at his speech mannerism, but she quickly recovered. "And you also," she said, formally. She turned back to Jeff. "I'm here as a liaison to the involved companies, as well as to direct representatives to the broadcast area," she explained, "Why don't you both come with me?"

They followed her to a small lounge with a wide-screen video. "We've got additional video screens set up about the outside room," she explained, "but we're allowing only a limited number of representatives in this area. And the families, of course, are in a private area."

"How many hostages are there?" Jeff asked, tensing slightly at the word "families."

"Sixteen that we know of," Erin replied, "We were lucky that the ISS was caught between semesters, and had only a skeleton crew. I presume you heard about their demands, about reestablishing the link between ASP and International Rescue?" She grimaced. "They'd . . . mucked up the code royally. We had a bear of a time getting the program reopen and the connection reestablished."

She hesitated, as if to refine her question as delicately as she could. "I know that International Rescue is a secret organization," she went on, "but would you know how many people were aboard their craft?" She winced at the implication of the sentence, and immediately corrected, "_Are_ aboard?"

He exchanged glances with Brains, then turned back to Erin. "Two," he said.

"Thank you," she responded, "Jeff, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to report that." She studied him for a moment, then reached for his hands, and gave them a squeeze in reassurance. "It'll work out, Jeff," she said, impulsively, " I know it will."

"Of course," he said. He watched her move amidst the crowd, and disappear.

A small number of representatives from each of the affected stations–other than the ASP–were allowed in the small lounge. Jeff recognized the president of the International Space Station Association, and the CEO of International World Televison. The others, he wasn't sure about. The military had sent at least one representative from each of the countries currently stationed on ASP.

One minute before broadcast time, Erin returned to the lounge and shut the door. "Ladies and gentleman," she announced, "There are paper and pens at the tables, should you desire to take notes. The video feed will commence in one minute" She waited by the door.

While other availed themselves of paper and pens, Jeff and Brains waited patiently. Brains' memory was enough for Jeff, and he didn't want waste his time taking notes. He needed to know that his sons were safe.

Thirty seconds before broadcast time, the video screens flickered to life, displaying test patterns. Military personnel circulated about the outside area, weaving through reporters, and checking various screens, but in the lounge, no one moved. The screen buzzed impatiently.

The white noise was abruptly broken. "This is the Earth Liberation Front," the same female voice announced, "At this time, parent organizations will be allowed contact with their satellites." The room hushed, all eyes fixed on the screen. "The Armed Services Platform will be allowed contact."

Military representatives surged forward, eagerly questioning. Jeff leaned over to Brains, murmuring, "We'll probably be last."

"Possibly," Brains agreed, equally as soft, "I don't think they were expecting to find Thunderbird Five." He nodded at the military types gathered around the screen. "I suspect that her presence was discovered via their systems."

"That agreement bit us," Jeff acknowledged, glancing over at Erin Jaimesen, "and I think the military will have a guilty conscience because of it." _Not that a guilty conscience would help John and Gordon._

They waited impatiently through the ISS and IWN conferences, before the voice spoke again from the video feed, riveting their attention.

"International Rescue."

The image of his fourth son appeared on screen. Jeff pushed forward, to the front of the room. "Gordon," he breathed. Subjugating his own emotions beneath a professional mask, he requested, "Status report."

"Thunderbird Five is intact," Gordon reported, "No structural damage, Da-, uh, sir," He glanced off screen, his struggle for control obvious–at least to Jeff.

The salutation brought a brief smile. Only at the end of a lecture, did any of the boys _ever_ call him that. "Are you all right?" he asked cautiously.

"I'm fine," Gordon said quickly.

Too quickly. Belatedly, Jeff realized that only one of the boys was onscreen. Fear twisted inside him, threatening an explosive recoil. "Where's John?" he demanded.

Gordon hesitated, looking as though he'd been caught in one of his pranks. "John's hurt."

The statement hit Jeff like a blow. "How?" _Repercussions, they'd said._ Brains' hand gripped his arm, reminding him of the role he'd assumed. He suppressed his emotions, forcing himself to remain detached.

"He was-" Gordon stopped abruptly, apparently warned by someone off screen, then repeated, "He's hurt. I think he's getting an infection. He's lost some--." He stopped again, and winced.

"Let me talk to John," Jeff said, his subconsciousness substituting anger for fear. _He's only nineteen, _he thought savagely, watching his son's image on the screen, _too young for this_. Not for the first time, guilt gnawed at him. Guilt for putting his sons in danger, because of their work. Because of _his_ dream.

Again, Gordon looked off screen, reaching for something. Then the transmission cut, leaving the screen in gray and white "snow."

"No!" Unaware that he had spoken aloud, Jeff stared at the blank screen. _That damned computer glitch!_

His protest was drowned out by the final announcement, made via IWN's system. "No further contact will be allowed."

The buzz of conversation filled the room, drowning the roar in Jeff's ears. Only Brains' hold on his arm seemed to keep him upright, and the man's eyes were filled with a compassion that he could not speak.

Erin's bright voice sounded through the background babel. "I'm sorry one of your organization's employees is hurt," she said, her face composed, and her tone carefully neutral. "We will try to negotiate medical treatment the next time they contact us, and possibly evacuation. But," she added sorrowfully, "at this point there's not much we can do."

_One of my employees? _he thought angrily. _You mean one of my sons._ He pulled his thoughts in line; the situation wasn't Erin's fault. Keeping his own expression neutral, as befitting a mere representative, he responded, "Thank you, Erin. I'd appreciate that." Realizing his slip, he added, "But I think we've got to get back and let everyone at International Rescue know what's up."

"Of course," Erin said, "Give my best to your boys."

"I will." He smiled, and shook her hand, as did Brains. Then they left the area.

Author's note:

PDA–public display of affection. Big no-no while in military uniform.


	9. Iota Ori

The view screen bearing his father's image blinked off, displaying darkness just as Gordon had reached for the switch that would rotate the camera. Loud static replaced the darkness, and he grabbed instead for the volume control, quickly cranking it down.

"What did you do?" Brad snarled, cuffing him back from the control panel.

Gordon ducked, but not quickly enough, and the blow caught him across the face. "Nothing!" he protested.

"Don't get cute," Rob warned. He stood behind John, the barrel of his gun resting casually on John's shoulder.

"We told you we had a computer glitch," John said. Ashen–except for the darkening bruise on his cheek–he leaned back into the chair, as if in need of the support. "It's nothing we're doing."

Gordon looked from Brad to Rob. "I'm going to shut it off," he said carefully, indicating the view screen. Brad grunted his assent, and Gordon turned the communications system off.

He hesitated. _They might not know what else I shut down. _He glanced over at John, then made a decision. The sensors for Thunderbird Three's approach also went off. As did a few nonessential but potentially annoying procedures which were normally managed by Five.

He stepped back from the console, and turned to his brother. Even to his inexperienced eye, John didn't look good. Gordon glanced from Brad to Rob, then stated, "I'm gonna take him in the personnel quarters, where there's a bunk." He looked back at Brad defiantly. "Okay?"

Brad eyed him suspiciously. Exasperated, Gordon waved at the corridor leading to the area. "Go check it out yourself," he challenged.

"You'd better hope," Brad retorted. He walked back to the sleeping area, disappearing into it momentarily. He reappeared, holding two boxes of ammunition that had been in the case. "You weren't gonna tell me about these?" he asked.

Gordon shrugged. "You've got the gun," he pointed out, feeling much as he did when cornered by Scott and Virgil. "What was I gonna do, throw 'em at you?"

There was a snort of laughter behind him, followed by a sharp intake of breath. Gordon felt a stab of guilt. _Don't make me laugh_, John had said

Even Brad's lips twitched. "Okay, Junior," he said, the amusement evident in his voice, "You can move him." On noting his companion's objection, he added, "It's clear."

Relived, Gordon reached for his brother. He slung one of John's arms around his own shoulder, grabbed his brother around the waist with the other, and pulled John to his feet.

"Whoa," John said, his face turning whiter than Gordon would have believed possible. "Hold on, Splash." Futilely resisting his brother's grip, he staggered against Gordon. Then his eyes closed against the sudden dizziness that swept over him.

_Oh, crap, _thought Gordon, _not good!_ Belatedly, he realized that he had grabbed John on his bad side_. Well, if you'd remembered the damn sling in the first place, _he scolded The full brunt of John's weight fell against him, causing him to stagger, and he knew John had passed out again. Struggling to hold his brother upright, he looked desperately at Rob, the nearest to him. "Please?"

The man glanced at his partner, who straightened, watching them carefully. Only then did Rob move to the opposite side, settling John's good arm around his shoulder.

They got John into the sleeping quarters and onto a bunk. Rob stepped away, as if embarrassed by the momentary lapse into helpfulness, and headed back into the control room. Brad remained in the doorway, alert and watching.

Gordon peeled back John's uniform, unconsciously biting his own lip as he did so. The jumpsuit didn't look any different, and the shirt underneath was a mess of stains–from both blood and the spilled disinfectant–that had worked their way along the fibers. _Hopefully, it looked worse than it was._

The dressing, however, was saturated, and some of the tape had peeled back. Gordon retrieved the medical kit from the control room, brushing his way past Brad, and hauled it back in the room with him. He pulled out more gauze pads from the dwindling supply, and piled them on top of the dressing. Fumbling with the tape, he glanced up at the doorway, intending to ask for help from Brad, but the man had returned to the control room. Swearing to himself, Gordon managed to secure the fresh dressing.

A dull stab from his pocket reminded him of the container hidden there. He checked his watch, but it was too early for another dose of antibiotic. Ditto for the codeine. Stalling for time, he grabbed the wrist monitor, a temperature strip, and a pad of paper, busying himself with taking vital signs.

Blood pressure readings were his weak point, but at least the monitor worked automatically. Gordon jotted down the numbers, wishing he'd paid better attention during the first aid "classes." Whether this was good or not, he wasn't sure.

Pulse–that he was better at, having had to monitor his own during training. John's seemed a little high. Gordon frowned, and rechecked it, but the difference was insignificant. Respirations, too, were faster than normal.

He held the temperature strip against John's forehead, purposely not watching it as he counted the seconds. The three-digit-plus-decimal-point reading was not encouraging.

Gordon crumpled the strip in his hand, fighting back his fear and guilt. He forced himself to write down the numbers. Rechecking his watch, he noted the time and wrote it beside the vitals, along with an approximate time for the antibiotic and painkiller.

He sat back, resting against the other bunk, at a loss for what to do next. Not that there was much else he could do, he realized ruefully, fiddling with the pencil. _Except maybe negotiate some kind of deal to get John off Five._ He turned the basic idea over in his mind, looking at options and possibilities. It boiled down to two scenarios.

They could abandon Five, if he could convince their captors to release both of them. He didn't think that they'd go for the loss of two bargaining chips. One was iffy enough. But leaving Five in the hands of strangers didn't sit too well either, and he could imagine what John would say about that.

The other option was for him to stay behind, once John was transferred off the station. And–John's opinion aside–that idea didn't appeal to _him_.

The pencil was well-chewed by the time he made up his mind. Gordon tossed it into the medical kit. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the tetracycline bottle. He turned it over several times, watching the solitary pill rattle, before replacing it in his pocket. _You're stalling,_ he told himself.

He knelt by John, once again checking his pulse. _No change_. Gordon closed his eyes briefly, then opened them. He stood, and headed for the control room.

Both men looked at him, and Brad moved smoothly alongside, as if to prevent him from making any sudden moves.

"Let John go," Gordon said abruptly, not knowing any other way to broach the subject.

Brad smiled patiently, amused. "You're kidding, right?"

"I think he's getting an infection from the. . ." Gordon faltered. "Without antibiotics, that might . . . " he swallowed hard, forcing himself to continue, " . . . might kill him. And there isn't any left on board." _Well, not enough worth counting, anyway._

The two men regarded each other in mutual animosity. Brad pulled the bottle of amoxycillin from his pocket, handing it back to Gordon. "What's wrong with using that?" he asked.

"He can't," said Gordon, "he's allergic to it." He stuffed that bottle in his pocket, and pulled out the tetracycline bottle, reluctantly handing it over. "This is the only stuff he can have, and there isn't enough of it."

Brad looked at the bottle, noting the names on it. "You, too, Junior?" he said, regarding Gordon thoughtfully. The silence stretched, painfully, as he continued to study the bottle. Then he looked back at Gordon and asked. "You guys brothers or what?"

Gordon didn't respond, as itdidn't seem worth hiding anymore. _And at least he hadn't noticed the names on the other container_.

His silence was apparently answer enough. Brad tossed the bottle back to Gordon. "It's up to Vicky," he said, a peculiar smile on his face.


	10. Kappa Ori

Black was not his color. He preferred the bright, clear blue of a cloudless sky–_okay, a few clouds would be acceptable–_and a nice heavy troposphere. As well as being a few thousand miles closer to ground in case of trouble. _Not that there was that much difference, falling from 22,000 miles or 2 miles. The end result was the same._

Scott shook the thought off. The elliptical orbit, with its illusion of the station moving out from behind the Earth, brought them in full view of Thunderbird Five. Set like a jewel against the backdrop of the galaxy, she circled the planet in her stately pirouette. Five looked innocent, with no sign of the troubles within her. And from outside at least, no damage was evident.

"Keep her back, Virg," Scott said, "Don't set off any alarms." In addition to sensors that warned Five about nearby craft, she was also able to sense when Three approached, on the off chance that her pilot would be asleep when that happened. And he didn't want to sound_ any_ kind of alarm aboard her just yet.

Virgil rolled Thunderbird Three from her sister craft's orbit. The rocket spun away reluctantly and Scott smiled to himself. _She knew Five was in trouble._

"Nobody at the docking arm, " Alan reported.

Scott glanced at the monitors, confirming his brother's report. Switching his attention to the windows above, he continued watching as Virgil swung Three smoothly about in a slingshot motion, bringing her under Five.

"She's in one piece," Virgil commented.

"Small favors," Scott responded.

Eagerly, Alan turned to his eldest brother. "So we dock?" he asked.

_God, I want to._ Reluctantly, Scott shook his head. One hand curled into a fist as he reminded Alan, "We don't know how many of them are aboard her." He paused, biding for time. "This is just a recon. We need to know what they want."

"But. . . ." Alan protested.

"Alan," Scott warned.

"But what about-"

"No!" he snapped. His fist slammed into the armrest, causing both his brothers to look at him in surprise. "Head for ISS," he said, refusing to look at either of them at the moment, "and keep an eye on ASP's orbit."

Virgil looked at him a moment longer, then turned back to the controls, his face carefully neutral. Alan scowled, opened his mouth in protest, then–at Scott's acrid expression–closed it, and sullenly faced his own controls.

_Sorry, Alan,_ Scott thought, _you don't know how bad I want to go in there and pound those jerks. _But John and Gordon weren't the only hostages they had to consider. He glanced up at the view screen, watched Five's image slid from it, and fervently wished that he could hit something else.

Three circled her sister once more, a little too close for his comfort. "Virgil," he warned, irritated. He would've expected something like that from Alan, but Virgil?In his mind, he could hear Five's sensors sounding.

"Sorry," muttered Virgil. Chagrined at being caught distracted, he corrected their course. He glanced at the controls, where a panel light–or rather, the _lack_ of one–caught his attention. "Scott," he said, his voice both puzzled and triumphant. "Her sensors aren't responding."

"What?" Scott looked down at his own control panel.

Virgil's observation was confirmed. Thunderbird Five was programmed to recognize Three's approach, and prepare for docking. But the display showed that–for all intents and purposes–Five was asleep on her watch. At least as far as Three was concerned.

His brothers looked at him expectantly. Struggling against his first instinct–to storm the station and rescue his brothers–he forced himself to respond otherwise. "Let's finish the recon," he said, "We'll report it when we get back, if Brains hasn't noticed it already."

"F.A.B.," Virgil said. He looked at Alan, slower to comprehend the situation and ordered, "Plot it out, Sprout."

_Dad, we've got something,_ Scott thought. He only hoped that it would be enough.

Break/break/break/shouldbewhitespaceherebutff.nwillnotallowit/break/break/break

Maintaining their communications system on International Rescue's computers had kept Rob both busy and frustrated. The systems on this craft constantly rejected the programs he and the others had concocted, and seemed to be doing their best to shut down the foreign program. In addition, random alarms from the station itself kept interrupting him. Much as he resented doing so, he'd had to have that International Rescue guy–the one Brad kept calling "Junior"–help him maintain the connections. And even "Junior" was having trouble with some of them, reminding Rob that it was the other guy who was the expert.

He wondered why Brad had even bothered to name the kid. It was easier to leave hostages nameless. Once they had names, they became more people, rather than things-to-be-controlled and bargaining chips. And that just made the final job that much harder.

But then, Brad liked to push people's buttons. And he'd hit a few of the kid's. _Although the kid was giving as good as he got._ Rob grinned reflectively. _Funny thing, too. Brothers serving together? Wasn't there a law against that?_

The object of his thoughts interrupted them. "Contact established."

Rob nodded curtly, then leaned over the kid's shoulder, and spoke into the console microphone. "Vicky, this is Rob. Do you read?"

"Go ahead, Rob," Mustaf responded, his image flickering on the screen. He moved aside, allowing Vicky full access to the viewer.

"Right," said Rob, puffing his cheeks and blowing out suddenly, another of his irritating habits. "Uh, that guy who got shot over here. He isn't looking too good."

"How is this is our concern?" Vicky asked.

"His buddy, ah, proposed that we let International Rescue take him out."

Vicky scowled. "Impossible," she said, "We cannot release any of the hostages until the conditions are met."

"I don't know, Vicky," Rob said peevishly, "What if he dies? They'll pin it on us, somehow."

"He's right," Mustaf broke in, "Even though we did not fire the shot, it is possible that we will be blamed for not getting assistance. _All_ of us." He regarded Vicky astutely. "You did tell them that there would be repercussions."

Vicky looked at him defensively. "We did not create the situation." And while Rob had a tendency to exaggerate a situation to its worst, Mustaf was their legal expert, and she was forced to concede his point. She straightened, thinking the situation over.

The other person on their view screen spoke. "Let him go."

He drew her attention for the first time during the transmission. _He is so young!_ was her first thought, _just a_ _schoolboy._ She studied him intently. Dark, reddish hair, set off by the white jumpsuit he wore. Dark eyes, too, but such a serious expression, and–_ Get hold of yourself!_ she scolded silently. _He is a bargaining tool, nothing more._

She hardened her expression, and along with it, her soul. "And allow your people to regain control of your station?" she asked imperiously, " I don't think so."

"We're not like that," he protested, "We help people. We're not policemen, or, or soldiers." Sensing no quarter, he tried again. "At least transfer him over there. They've got medical people and. . ." his hand made a abstract gesture ". . . stuff." His voice caught. "Look, I'll stay. Just let John go."

Something in his voice diffused her resolve, loosing a long-suppression emotion. To her surprise, she found herself agreeing to the request. "Very well. Minimal staff on your rescue vehicle," she said abruptly, ignoring Mustaf's surprised expression. She composed herself, angry for relenting, but unwilling to retract her statement. "If they are not at your station within-," she glanced at her watch, "-two hours, there will be no evacuation. Understood?" The boy sighed and leaned back in the chair. Her attention shifted. "Rob?"

"Yes?" said Rob, surprise evident in both intonation and expression.

Vicky ignored both. "Allow contact with International Rescue. Inform them of the conditions for the evacuation." She paused, then added, "You may add any other conditions you deem necessary."

"Understood."

"Thank you," added the boy softly.

She didn't respond, indicating instead for Mustaf to sever the connection. He did so, then turned to her, one eyebrow raised in query. "Why not bring him here?"

The question, along with the scrutiny of Gaia and Elnoo, chafed. It added to her own irritation about the momentary weakness. _Because,_ she thought,_ it will stretch us even thinner if we have to release a medic and assign one of you to watch them. _ And she was thoroughly aware that acquisition of International Rescue's vehicle–under her orders–had stretched them in the first place. _It would be better this way, a goodwill offering, as well as a warning. _

"It will serve us as well," Vicky said, the rationalization more for herself than for the others. "We will not have death on our conscience." _And hopefully the General will not hear about this._

Author's note:

No, there is no law (in the United States, anyway) against brothers, or any other family members serving together in the same unit/ship, at least at this time. Contrary to popular opinion, the incident in WWII with the Sullivan brothers on the USS Juneau did _not_ result in such a law (although obviously Rob is one of those who believes it did). International Rescue would have a very hard time operating if that were true grin.


	11. Lambda Ori

"Her sensors are off," Scott argued, swinging slowly in the lone chair of at the center of the command console. The room had been in office mode when they arrived, but he had reset it to the command and control setting. "That would give us the advantage."

"For how long?" Virgil retorted. Curled on the nearby couch, he had positioned himself so that the six portraits covering lifts to the hanger were out of his visual field. "Once we lock on, that advantage is gone. They'll be waiting for us the minute we step out of the airlock."

"They wouldn't know we were coming!" Alan protested. Unable to sit still, he paced the area in front of the portraits.

Virgil glared at Alan, inadvertently glancing at the portraits of John and Gordon in the process. "Been through your commando training already, Sprout?" he said sarcastically, refocusing his concern for into his missing brothers into continuing irritation with his sibling.

Alan's expression sobered, and Virgil continued, "We don't know anything about who's up there. Not how many, nor what they've got. Or what they may have done to Five, or . . . ." He stopped, and abruptly faced away from the lifts.

"Beats sitting here doing nothing," Alan muttered. Virgil pointedly ignored the comment.

"Still," Scott reasoned, "There's four of us, including Dad. With John and Gordon already there, that's six." He looked thoughtfully at Alan, then Virgil. "Throw in Kyrano, and that's got to tip the balance in our favor."

"See?"

"You don't know-"

"We can't just-"

The doors opened, and their father and Brains entered into the office, effectively ending the discussion. Virgil scrambled up from the couch, and Scott vacated the chair. They joined Alan at the edge of the console, watching as their father walked toward the chair and sat down. Brains halted near the brothers, waiting. The atmosphere in the room shifted, as–concerned by their father's expression and silence–the brothers exchanged uneasy glances.

Hesitantly, Scott asked, "Dad?" He looked at his brothers, who remained silent, then to Brains. The man shook his head sympathetically, but didn't answer. _This was definitely one of those times when it was a pain in the butt to be the oldest. _Scott took a deep breath, and repeated, "Dad?"

Jeff temporized, regarding each of the boys in turn. Scott, with barely concealed anger hiding his fear. Virgil, worried and imagining the worst. And Alan, not as adept at hiding his feelings, and looking much younger than his fifteen years.

"We made contact with Thunderbird Five," he said finally, sensing the boys' growing unease. "As already reported, a group called the 'Earth Liberation Front' is claiming responsibility."

"John and Gordon?" Alan blurted.

Jeff shut his eyes, then opened them, knowing that the gesture told more than he was prepared to. "Gordon's all right," he said, hedging the statement. Even saying that much, Scott's expression hardened, Virgil's grew more concerned, and Alan shook his head, trying to negate the impact of the statement.

There was no softening the blow. "John's injured," he said simply. He raised his hand, forestalling the questions. "I don't have any details. Five's communication problem interrupted the transmission, and the activists are refusing further contact."

"Damn!" Scott was rapidly reaching his boiling point.

"We might have a chance," Virgil interrupted, "Thunderbird Five's sensors are down."

His brothers gaped at him, since Virgil had previously been arguing the negative. He smiled, as the identical expressions on Scott and Alan would have been hilarious under other circumstances.

"What?" The statement had riveted Jeff's attention. He looked at Brains, a silent conversation passing between them. Then his gaze returned to Virgil.

"At least as far as Three's concerned," Virgil added.

Alan chimed in, eager to add to that thought. "And maybe we-"

The speakers interrupted him. "Thunderbird Five to Tr-, ah, International Rescue." The transmission crackled and hissed, unlike normal communications, filling the break and distorting the familiar voice slightly.

"International Rescue, do you copy? This is Thunderbird Five."

With Scott and Virgil on either side of him, Jeff flicked on the communication switch. "This is International Rescue," he said, "Go ahead, Thunderbird Five." Gordon's image resolved on the screen, and a look of relief flashed across his face.

"Gordon!" Scott's exclamation was echoed by Alan.

"Are you okay?" Virgil demanded.

"Boys," Jeff warned softly, then refocused his attention on the screen.

"The, um, activists have agreed to an evacuation," Gordon said, drumming staccato taps on the control panel. He glanced at his watch. "If Thunderbird Three docks within the next two hours, they'll release John. If not, no deal."

"How is he?" An impromptu duet blended the question from both Jeff and Virgil.

Gordon flinched, as if someone had prodded him. "Not good. He's bleeding, and his temperature's going up," he said, mindful of the presence behind him, "He's out–I mean unconscious–right now, and, uh . . . "

"What about transferring him to ASP?" Jeff interrupted. The chair jerked slightly as Scott's fingers dug into it.

"That's a negative." Gordon shook his head. The idea that International Rescue–that Dad–_wouldn't_ evacuate John flitted through his thoughts, and he fought the panic that followed it. He paused, listening to a faint voice behind him, then added, "Minimal crew."

"That's three," Scott interjected.

_Good,_ Jeff thought, keeping his face impassive. That was Three's normal crew, not its minimal. He looked over at Brains, who along with Alan and Kyrano, was watching another monitor. Brains nodded, and moved to yet another console.

"Yeah, I know," said Gordon. He paused again, his attention on the off-screen presence. "Only two of you can come on board."

"What about you?" Virgil broke in, "Are they letting you go?"

Gordon took a deep breath. "I'm staying." He tried a smile, but it didn't have quite the effect he'd hoped for. "Someone has to man the fort," he quipped.

"No way!" protested Scott. His fist hit the chair, sending reverberations through it. "You can't-"

"I have to," Gordon interrupted, "Or they won't let John go."

A look from his father stopped Scott in mid-protest. "Understood," Jeff said evenly, "We'll be there."

"F.A.B.," said Gordon, relieved. "Oh," he added, as if an afterthought, "We're still having random problems with some of the systems."

"We'll adjust," Jeff said calmly. Behind him, Scott and Virgil exchanged glances.

"Okay. Thunderbird Five out."

The image dissolved into static. Jeff closed the channel, then looked over at Brains.

"Thirty minutes, according to Major Jaimesen," said Brains, acknowledging the unspoken question.

"Thank you," said Jeff. Noting the puzzled expressions of his sons, a transient smile appeared. Refraining from immediately resolving their curiosity, he turned instead to the silent figure beside him. "Kyrano, if you would make ready for our visitors. We'll leave as soon as they get here." Kyrano inclined his head, and left the room.

"Visitors?" echoed Alan, "What visitors?"

"Scott, Virgil," Jeff continued, ignoring Alan's question for the moment. "Set up the jump seat in Thunderbird Three." He hesitated, then turned to his youngest son, "Alan, take Thunderbird One and rendevous with Major Jaimesen at Hickam Air Force Base."

None of the boys moved. Belligerently, Scott crossed his arms and waited, his gaze locked on his father. Virgil's position mirrored his brother's, his expression speculative rather than annoyed. Across the room, Alan's mixture of confusion and anticipation caused Jeff to shake his head. His smile reappeared.

"We can only take three crew," he said, patiently, "but we've no restrictions on how many passengers."

Comprehension dawned on the older boys first. Virgil's smile of relief was punctuated by Scott's exuberant "Yes!" It was followed seconds later by a whoop from Alan.

"Okay, okay," Jeff said, raising one hand for silence. He turned back to Alan. "You'll be picking up three Special Operations personnel at Hickam. Major Jaimesen is coordinating their arrival. You'll bring them back here, and they'll transfer to Thunderbird Three. Scott, Virgil, and I will take it from there." He looked at the older boys. "We'll have to play it by ear once we're up there."

"But. . . ." Alan protested, his initial elation at the assignment damped by the realization that he would be left behind on the actual rescue.

Jeff shook his head. "I'm sorry, Alan. With systems down on Five, it's got to be those of us with the experience. You'll stay here, and keep an eye on things with Brains and Kyrano. Since we don't know what systems have been deactivated, assume that Five is still monitoring communications. Security precautions on radio transmissions." He looked steadily at Alan. "I wouldn't put it past them to try and activate her weapons. We may yet need to shut down her completely."

"John wouldn't," Alan argued, "Neither would Gordon."

"Never name the well. . . ." Virgil didn't finish the quote, as both his father and eldest brother turned on him with identical expressions. Alan, however, merely looked puzzled at the quotation. _Look it up, Sprout,_ he thought resentfully.

"Mr. Tracy," Brains interrupted, "I've analyzed the recording. There seems to be an additional message."

"The tapping?" asked Virgil.

Brains nodded. "It appears to be a message in Morse code," he said, his stutter less pronounced. He walked over to the station where Jeff was seated, a piece of paper in his hand, and laid it on the console.

_One knive one gun,_ it read. "There was something else," Brains added apologetically, "but I couldn't make it out."

"Spelling's not his strong point," said Virgil.

"Neither is Morse code," retorted Scott.

"No," said Jeff, "But at least we've got an idea of what we're going into." He looked at his sons. "Let's go."

Author's Note:

For those who are curious, the quote which Virgil does not finish is: "Never name the well from which you will not drink."


	12. Mu Ori

John came back to consciousness slowly, initially convinced that a) he'd slept wrong on his shoulder, and b) someone had been messing with the thermostat on Five. He shifted, intending to get off the bunk and fix both those situations, but managed only a seated position before his confusion was replaced with excruciating awareness.

Stars appeared in his vision and brightened to a white glare, while the room turned in an orbit all its own. "Not supposed to do that," he muttered, trying to steady both himself and his breathing. John shifted, supporting himself against the bulkhead, and waited for the whiteness to fade. But even that maneuver intensified the pain radiating from his shoulder. Touching the area in question, he felt the bulk of the bandage there, and remembered.

Gordon wasn't in the room. _Good,_ he thought. He drew his knees up to his chest, and wrapped his good arm around them, his head resting against the bulkhead. His eyes closed, as he breathed slowly and carefully through each movement. Holding himself as though he would shatter in an instance, he gave in to the feeling he'd been denying ever since the two men had come through Five's airlock.

He was scared. First class, grade A, one-hundred-freaking-percent scared.

Not since the Hood had sent the missile_–was that only a year ago?–_that had torn through Thunderbird Five, had he felt this frightened. Only then there had been hope. Granted, it had been snatched away again, but by then he'd been unconscious. But things had worked out eventually, even though it had cost both him and Five a couple weeks of downtime.

This time was different. There was no way anyone could approach Five without setting off her alarms. No chance of rescue at all. Neither from Earth nor from any of the other stations in orbit. These . . . terrorists had made sure of that. It was just him and Gordon. Period.

Unlike Gordon, he'd paid enough attention in Ohana's classes to know that he was in trouble. And he knew, better than any of them, the limitations of Five's medical kit and–he smiled ruefully–Gordon's abilities in that area. It was a sure bet that the terrorists wouldn't allow any outside medical attention to reach Five. Not until their demands where met, and he wouldn't put it past them to renege on any deal afterward.

The idea of dying on his Thunderbird seemed like a bad cosmic joke, before it just plain made him angry. He had to hold on–for Gordon's sake, if nothing else.

"John?"

Startled, he gathered his scattered feelings and thoughts, hurriedly burying them in the facade he normally presented. He opened his eyes, but found it difficult to focus on his brother's face.

Kneeling there next to the bunk, Gordon looked guilty. Normally that would have set off proverbial alarm bells in John's head, a warning that his younger brother was up to something. But his brain seemed to be functioning in slow motion, and although he knew he'd object to whatever Gordon was up to, it was just too difficult to actually make the protest.

"John?" The question came again, and he could hear a change in Gordon's voice.

Fear hit Gordon, acutely palpable fear. _Had he waited too long?_ John was pale, with a sheen of sweat visible on his face. He looked at Gordon, then looked through him, as if John had moved onto some other plane of existence. Gordon shivered, feeling suddenly cold in spite of Five's comfortable temperature.

"They're letting you go," Gordon said. _Anything to break through that . . . barrier._

"What?" Sure that it was some fever-induced hallucination he'd heard, John stared uncomprehendingly at his brother.

"I've talked to . . . to Dad," Gordon said, stumbling over his words. He glanced back toward the doorway. "They've agreed to let you go, and Three should be here pretty soon."

The concept finally penetrated John's brain. Concerned, he looked at Gordon. "What about you?"

Gordon smiled, but it didn't work any better on John than it had earlier with the others. "I'm staying."

"No!" John protested, "Gord, you can't."

"I have to," Gordon said. _God, this conversation sounded familiar. _"Or they won't let you go." He hadn't expected identical reactions from John and Scott–they'd always seemed like polar opposites.

He stood, and reached across the bunk. "Lie down," he urged, grasping John's shoulders, and easing him back on the bunk. John winced, and Gordon immediately released his grip, penitent at having forgotten again. The lack of resistance from his brother only goaded his fears.

_Maybe Three won't get here in time. Maybe those guys would take them all hostage, instead of letting John go. Maybe–_

He quashed the thoughts, and knelt by the bunk, busying himself with rechecking the dressing. John's eyes had closed again; whether he was again unconscious, or just resting, Gordon wasn't sure.

"Hey, Junior. Get back out here."

Fists clenched, Gordon stood, and headed for the door. He paused, glanced back at the bunk, then walked into the control room.

Break/break/break/shouldbewhitespaceherebutff.nwillnotallowit/break/break/break

Major Erin Jaimesen waited impatiently on the tarmac at Hickam Air Force Base. Beside her stood three Army Rangers, a lieutenant and two sergeants, specially selected for this mission. It wasn't every day that one had to plan a raid on a space station, let alone a secret space station. Only extenuating circumstances such as these had even made the concept possible. But when Dr. Hackenbacker had broached the idea, she had jumped on the opportunity to assist an organization that had helped so many others.

She shaded her eyes, scanning the sky, and spotted the sleek blue-and-silver craft approaching the base. As it came closer, the words "Thunderbird 1" were displayed prominently on its undercarriage. It hovered above the secured runway, two of its boosters rotating until they pointed at the ground. Its landing gear extended and it settled smoothly on the tarmac. Half again as long as a standard fighter, and looking half plane and half spaceship, it was an impressive vehicle

Behind its red nose cone, the lower front of Thunderbird One dropped, displaying two seats. Its pilot disengaged himself from one on the left, sliding to the ground in a not-quite dignified manner. She smiled, and heard the snickers beside her. The pilot collected himself, and glanced around. He headed in her direction, straightening his blue-trimmed jumpsuit as he walked.

"Major Jaimesen?" he asked, extending his hand politely. "I'm from International Rescue."

_My God! He's just a kid! _She clenched her jaw, to keep it from dropping in astonishment. _And if he's sixteen, I'll eat my beret!_ Flustered momentarily, she didn't respond.

"Ma'am," said a voice from behind her.

Collecting herself, she responded, "Yes, of course. And you are?"

He hesitated, then said, "My name's Alan." Gesturing at his craft, he added, "Um, if your people are ready, we can go."

She could feel the disbelief from the three Rangers–and probably reluctance to get in that vehicle with this kid–and a brief flash of resentment toward Jeff Tracy flashed over her. _Does he know this organization is using _kids_ as pilots? _she thought in exasperation, _I wouldn't let this boy drive my car, let alone a vehicle like that! _

Suppressing her qualms, she turned to the men behind her. "Lieutenant MacAndrew," she said, with a rueful smile, "you have your orders."

"Yes, ma'am." His skeptical gaze met hers, then he snapped a salute. Turning to the two men beside him, he ordered, "Move out!" The three of them proceeded toward Thunderbird One.

"Oh." The boy–Alan–paused, as if suddenly remembering. "Jeff Tracy sends his regards." He turned, and headed back into the Thunderbird. The cockpit closed and the engines rumbled into life.

Nonplused, Erin watched as Thunderbird One rose from the runway. Once sufficiently above the surface, its VTOLs rotated so that they pointed away from the craft. There was a roar and the vehicle climbed into the atmosphere.

Erin's gaze followed the craft until it was no longer visible, more than slightly envious of the men inside. Shaking her head, she returned to her vehicle. She had a lot of questions for Jeff Tracy, the next time she saw him.


	13. Nu Ori

Acutely conscious of his role as a representative of International Rescue, Alan was conscientious in his handling of Thunderbird One with passengers. The blatant disbelief of both the major and the Rangers–even though those men seemed no older than Scott or John–had roust old feelings and doubts. He resolved to show them that he was capable of both handling and being a Thunderbird.

Even though in many states, he wasn't even eligible for a driver's license. Alan grinned briefly. Gordon had threatened to put "Student Driver" signs on the various Thunderbirds for him, ever since Alan'd managed to beat his brother's palm tree record. That is, until Scott and Virgil caught him painting it on Two. Alan had actually felt sorry for Gordon at the time, until he found out why his brother was getting pounded. _Although I haven't knocked off the diving board,_ he thought, _Yet_. Scott's reminder remained intact.

Thinking about Gordon sobered him, enforcing the point that he was on this mission solely because two of his brothers were. . . missing. Although he'd sat in on a few missions over the past year, and spent part of his summer vacation up on Five with John, Alan still felt very much the trainee. The sheer volume of information that had been stuffed into his head since last spring–in addition to the schoolwork at Wharton–was staggering.

He settled One on the runway at Tracy Island, a landing that even Scott couldn't find fault with. Careful not to make the same sort of exit he had in Hawaii, Alan slid cautiously from her cockpit. Kyrano met him there, and they waited for the Rangers to descend from the craft.

"Gentlemen," Kyrano inclined his head. "Master Alan."

Alan winced at the designation. Kyrano took no notice of his discomfort. "If you'd follow me, please," he continued. He led them from the field through the first steel door, into the maze of tunnels and corridors leading to the Thunderbirds hanger. Alan brought up the rear.

They paused at a second metal doorway with its requisite hand pad beside it. Kyrano placed his hand upon the pad, then removed it. A blue light flared from the pad. He turned expectantly to Alan.

Alan nudged his way forward. He'd almost forgotten that two hand "signatures" were needed here to enter the hanger at this door. Unless, of course, there was someone available to open them from the inside. He put his hand on the pad. Once again, the blue light flared, then the handpad changed to green.

The door slid open, displaying the heart of International Rescue. There was a soft whistle behind him, and Alan grinned. He had to admit, the hanger was impressive, at least from this angle.

To their immediate left was a work area, which occasionally was used for non-International Rescue vehicles as well. Beyond it was the cavernous pod area, where the Firefly, the Thunderizer, Thunderbird Four and various other equipment used on Thunderbird Two were kept. Two herself stood watch over it all, her nose barely protruding into the pit area.

A painted walkway led from the pod to Thunderbird One's silo, directly across from their position. Next to it, the doors to Three's silo stood open. He saw neither Scott nor Virgil were nowhere in sight. _Probably already in Three, prepping for launch. _Alan couldn't help a brief flash of resentment. Although he understood his father's reasoning for the crew selection on this mission, he didn't have to like it.

Kyrano veered to the right, heading for the elevator, as Alan lead the Rangers toward Thunderbird Three's access corridor. His father met the group, just outside the silo doors.

"Sir!" said the lieutenant. "Lt. MacAndrew." He came to attention, but didn't salute. Indicating his companions, he continued, "Sergeant Cody, and Sergeant Oro."

Jeff nodded in acknowledgment. He and the lieutenant conferred as they walked toward Thunderbird Three's silo. Occasionally, one or the other of sergeants interjected a point into the conversation.

Alan watched the four men walked away. It took all his self-control–_and there wasn't much of that,_ he thought, wryly–to not follow them into the silo.

At the silo's doors, his father paused, and looked back at him. Alan met the look, and straightened, barely resisting the sudden urge to salute. The barest trace of a smile touched his father's face, and he nodded. He entered the silo, the Rangers following. The doors closed behind them.

Alan watched until he heard–or thought he had–the faint click of the silo's locking mechanism. Then he hurried for the control center.


	14. Xi Ori

Seated on the step leading to the station's control center, Gordon fidgeted. Rotations on Five had never ranked high on his favorite-things-to-do list. Being stuck on Five as a hostage–with two armed maniacs waiting for God-knows-what, and a seriously injured brother–definitely hit an all-time record low, at least in his book. And the stress of forced inaction was beginning to get to him, like a really bad, inaccessible itch.

About the only thing he could count as a positive in this situation was that these guys hadn't decided to tie them up. Between Brains and John, with some help from Dad and Virgil, Five's computer systems were unique enough that even the most sophisticated hacker would have trouble, provided one managed to get in the system. And since he'd managed to set a few of Five's automatic tasks back to manual, minor alarms had gone off on a regular basis. These guys would have gone nuts tying and untying him each time.

An insistent beep sounded from the board. Instinctively, Gordon scrambled up, heading toward the controls to lock onto the signal. He hesitated when Brad stepped out to block him

Five's comm speakers hissed, the static garbling the caller's voice. "Calling International Rescue."

_Oh, crap,_ thought Gordon, _this is _not_ the time for a real emergency._

"Brad? Rob?" The static increased, then faded slightly, and Gordon felt the tiniest spark of relief. "Are you there?"

Rob searched the control board, then activated the communications systems. "What's up, Oden?" He glanced at Brad, intrigued, then returned his attention to the screen.

Usually so composed, Oden's voice sounded worried, which for him was positively frantic. "I've lost contact with ASP." The static on the view screen resolved into his image, but it continually flickered and spat, as if something were wrong with the signal.

Gordon watched the proceedings with interest. The transmission's reception was highly unusual for Five. She could pick up the faintest of distress signals and enhance them so you'd swear the caller was right there on Five. This particular call was not like her. And he didn't think IWN's equipment was that shabby, either. It was almost as if someone were jamming the signal, and a very sophisticated jamming at that. _But Five should be able to handle that too._

"Shit!" Brad swore, "Hell of a time for that to happen." He looked at the screen in disbelief. "We've got International Rescue on the way."

"What?" Distracted from his own concerns, Oden's expression mirrored Brad's. "Why?" His image fractured briefly, then steadied. "Who authorized that?" he demanded.

"Vicky did," Rob responded. He tapped unsuccessfully at the panel, trying to improve the connection. "They're taking out the guy who got shot." He peered at the screen curiously. "She didn't tell you?"

Oden ran his hand through his hair in exasperation. "Why did she do that?" he said, "We agreed that no concessions would be made. Not until the conditions were met."

"PMS?" Brad offered snidely.

Oden snorted. "Use that private network," he said preemptively. "See if you can contact ASP. If International Rescue is indeed coming, we need that weaponry to control the situation. The last thing we need is the military riding in their slipstream."

"No shit."

"All right," Rob said, making a _shut-up_ motion at his partner. He turned back to the screen. "What about ISS? Are they still in the loop?"

"I spoke with Jorge minutes ago," said Oden, beginning to sound annoyed, "That station depends on ASP for its defenses. It's ASP that we need to be concerned about. Contact them." His image flickered again. "Now." The transmission ceased.

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Aside from his questions about the layout of Thunderbird Five, Lieutenant MacAndrew had been mostly silent during Three's takeoff and establishment of orbit. Five wasn't quite in the optimal position for rendevous she'd been in earlier, and this trip would be cutting their timetable a little close. Then again, the longer trip gave them more time to plan.

"They've agreed to release your injured operative," he mused, watching as Five began her egress from behind the planet, "Securing him should be fairly straightforward. But the other . . . ." He paused, then confirmed, "They're allowing two of you on board?"

"That's right," Jeff said. He had to hand it to Erin. These Special Ops guys she'd picked were fairly poised about the situation. _Situations,_ he corrected silently. Except for a brief flash of something close torelief when they'd met him–and later, Scott and Virgil–their reactions to International Rescue had been carefully controlled. They'd stayed focused on the problem of extracting John and Gordon from the situation on Five.

"So if we get you on, one of you has to draw attention. . . ." the lieutenant's voice trailed off as he turned the problem over in his mind. He shifted in the jump seat, causing it to squeak.

"I still say one of us should go in," said Sergeant Oro.

MacAndrew shook his head. "We can't trust that their"–he nodded at Jeff–"operatives won't react," he said. "And once the cover is blown, those guys could kill everyone in there." He looked thoughtfully at the man seated in front of him, perceptive of his contained tension. _And I'd be itching the same way, if it were my team. "_No," he concluded, "it has to be them. And we can't dismiss the possibility that they'll search this vehicle before they'll release your man."

Sergeant Cody glanced around Three's interior. "Not much ambush opportunity," he noted.

"Still," said MacAndrew, "If we can draw one of them in here, secure him, then storm the area." He addressed his words to Jeff, granting him commander's privilege, "Maybe you can draw off your operative, if they haven't secured him elsewhere. Or," he added, "whoever's going in with you."

"I'll go," said Scott and Virgil simultaneously. They exchanged contending glances.

Scott flipped his mike switch to an alternate frequency. He rested three fingers on the panel, waiting for Virgil to switch his own headset. "You're the pilot," he said, _sotto voc_.

"You can't pull rank," Virgil retorted.

"Flip you for it," Scott challenged. After a quick search of his pockets, he asked sheepishly, "Got a coin?"

Virgil checked his pockets, also coming up empty-handed. "Nope." He grinned briefly. "No Alan either."

"Paper, rock, scissors?"

"We're flying," Virgil pointed out, "_and_ we have company."

"Verbally, then," said Scott. "Five seconds . . . _mark_." The chronograph ticked the seconds away, then. . . .

"Paper," said Scott.

"Roc-ah, scissors."

"Ah-ah." Ignoring his brother's glower, Scott switched back to the common frequency. "I'll go."

TBC

**Author's apology**: Sorry this took so long. These next two chapters took some rearranging to make the story flow properly, and I actually resorted to Laura Ingalls Wilder's method of editing–snippets of paper scattered all over the floor. And I've been repainting my house. While painting makes for great story creation time, falling asleep at the computer doesn't get the words recorded. :)


	15. Omicron Ori

"That sucks stagnant swamp water," Brad griped. He glanced at Rob, already working on the request. Brad watched him for a while, then his gaze moved over to where Gordon stood. "This thing got any weapons?" he scowled.

"Not that I can see," Rob said absently, concentrating on his task. "Unless they're well disguised." He paused, recognizing the error message on the monitor. "Damn, that system's off-line again." Rob looked at Brad, then accusingly at Gordon.

Gordon held his hands up. _I didn't do it._ Resentfully, he eyed Five's communications board, wondering why the stupid glitch didn't show up when those guys used it.

Brad scowled at the board, but the console made little sense to him. In his opinion–compared with the straightforward systems on both their shuttles and ASP–this thing was designed by a demented chipmunk. He strode over to Gordon, grabbed him by the shoulder, and shoved him toward the control panel in frustration. "Fix it!"

Gordon staggered, catching himself against the panel, before regaining his balance. "I can't reset it," he said, turning back to face Brad, "Like we told you earlier, you can only do that from ASP headquarters."

"Son-of-a-bitch," Rob interrupted, his attention zeroed on one particular communications channel. "This isn't good." He turned up the volume on Five's speakers.

"–_abandon ship. Repeat. This is the International Space Station. Abandon ship. This is the International–"_

"All right, already," Brad snarled, "Shut it off."

Rob cut the speakers. "Automatic distress signal," he murmured, "First ASP, now ISS." He looked at Brad worriedly, brushing his hair from his eyes. "This isn't good."

"You think?" Brad sniped. He looked at Gordon, and something in his expression caused Gordon to step back in defense. "Hey, Junior," he said ominously, "This thing got any weapons?" There was a soft sound as he drew the knife from its sheath, Gordon's silence having given him the answer. "Fire 'em up," he said softly.

"No," said Gordon emphatically, shaking his head. Further retreat was barred by the console, and his opponent moved closer. The oscillating knife paused in front of his face, then traced a path downward, stopping at the hollow of his throat.

Gordon's patience frayed quickly. "Get that thing out of my face," he snapped, grabbing for the knife.

Brad flicked the weapon downward, and Gordon's hand wrapped around the blade. With a hiss of pain, he released it immediately, curling his hand into a protective fist.

Their acrimonious gazes locked. "Sure," said Brad, amiably. He stepped back, his expression inscrutable. Gordon remained at the console, watching the other man warily. Moments passed, then Brad smiled. He turned and sauntered toward the personnel quarters.

"No!" Gordon started after him.

"Ah-ah," cautioned Rob. Guessing what Brad had in mind, he pulled Gordon back. "You made your choice."

Brad emerged from the personnel area, with John in his custody. He shoved the elder Tracy toward the console, causing John to stumble and clutch for the nearest support. Gordon grabbed for him, steadying and settling him in the chair. The cuts on his hand left smeared stains on the uniform, causing John to look speculatively at him.

Brad eyed the brothers. "One of you," he said, as if announcing they'd won the lottery, "is going to fire up this bucket's weapons, so your buddies don't pull any surprises." He pulled a challenge coin from his pocket, tossing it casually in the air.

_Activate Five's weapons with Thunderbird Three inbound?_ Concerned, Gordon glanced at his brother, watching as that same emotion replaced the brief flash of resentment and amusement in John's expression. "Why?" John asked softly.

"Something went down at ASP," Gordon said, presuming the question was directed at him. "I'm guessing they. . . ."

"Call it," Brad said suddenly. He ceased flipping the coin and looked at them, an uncanny cast in his eyes. "One of you, right now. Or fire up the weapons."

An equally fey light danced in John's eyes–whether fever or something else, Gordon couldn't tell. The older Tracy held out his hand. Brad tossed the coin at him, smirking as he aimed it at John's uninjured side.

He looked surprised, though, as John deftly caught the coin with his uninjured left hand. Gordon couldn't help a smirk of his own, for John was the lone southpaw in the family.

John examined the coin, its obverse displaying an eagle crest, and winged parachute and helicopter on the reverse. He flipped the coin back to Brad. "Heads," he said, regarding the man levelly.

Brad smiled, holding John's gaze with his own. "Heads, I kill you," he said, as if caressing the thought, "Tails, it's Junior." He tossed the coin in the air.

"What!" Startled, Gordon couldn't help gaping at his brother. "No, wait!" Surrendering to the immediate threat, he turned back to the console. The coin landed on the floor, its gyrations slowing in a ominous knell.

It was conscious effort for him to not look, either at the coin or John. Instead, he glanced at the monitors, then reluctantly began setting Five's weapons to manual control. Working as slowly as he dared, Gordon hoped that someone on Tracy Island was monitoring this. Not that they could do anything about it, but there was a chance someone could at least warn Three.

Break/break/break/shouldbewhitespaceherebutff.nwillnotallowit/break/break/break

"Ah, Base to Thunderbird Three," the radio interrupted, "What's your ETA?"

There was a snort from the direction of the pilot's seat. Scott glanced at his brother, who mouthed "Sound familiar?" at him. He scowled back, muttering, "Not funny," and returned his attention to the controls in front of him.

Jeff refrained from commenting as he reached for the communications switch. Alan _did_ sound like Scott–on certain occasions. "ETA approximately twenty minutes."

"Situation update," Alan said, "There's some kind of problem at ISS. The station is being abandoned. Don't know yet why, oh, wait a minute. . . ." The transmission broke.

"Who's the nearest station for ISS to evacuate to?" asked MacAndrew.

Jeff's fingers flew across his board in calculation. "They'll have to head for ASP," he said in satisfaction. "IWN is closer, but I doubt that it's big enough."

"No." The lieutenant nodded in agreement with Jeff's assessment. "Safety in numbers. They'll head for ASP. Unless," he added thoughtfully, "your station is big enough to accommodate them."

"It is," Jeff said grimly.

"Would they know that?" interjected Oro.

"The system between ASP and Thunderbird Five had to be reset," Jeff pointed out "They're probably running a communication protocol of their own." _Good luck,_ he added silently. Thunderbird Five had damn good security on her computers, and he'd be willing to bet that the terrorists would have a difficult time keeping any foreign program running on her systems. "They've had the opportunity."

"But ASP is closer than your station," MacAndrew persisted. The seat squeaked again–the jump seat was not the most comfortable spot in Thunderbird Three, nor was the lieutenant a small man.

"Yes."

Contact resumed, with repressed excitement in Alan's voice. "ASP's crew has retaken that station. They just sent out a message. Repeat, ASP had been secured."

The tension in Three lessened somewhat. "Damn," grinned Cody, glancing over at his fellow sergeant. "There goes half our job, Ryan."

"Perhaps," said MacAndrew, "If–and it's a big_ if_–they didn't get a warning out to their remaining buddies. Those guys could figure they've nothing to lose."

"Still, the threat to Earth itself is neutralized," said Oro, "Except, of course, for Jim, here." His partner made a rude gesture in response.

_Unless . . . _thought Jeff. As if reading his thoughts, Alan's voice broke in again, the excitement replaced by apprehension. "Thunderbird Three, she's powering up weapons. Repeat. Thunderbird Five is powering up weapons."

Scott and Virgil exchanged looks, and Scott's hand dropped to the bottom of his panel. He glanced back at his father, but Jeff shook his head. They were about ten minutes from Five. "Prepare for immediate docking," Jeff ordered. His attention shifted back to the radio. "Alan, Brains, see if you can contact Five. . . ."

"Brains is already on it," Alan said.

"Good. Get Gordon to stall, if you can," said Jeff. He turned his attention back to the immediate situation. "Okay, boys. Let's see if we can beat her to the punch."

break/break/break/shouldbewhitespaceherebutff.nwillnotallowit/break/break/break

Both men had moved forward, shadowing their hostages. Rob stood behind John, and Brad–after retrieving his coin–insinuated himself between the brothers, looming over Gordon as he worked.

Gordon tried to ignore him, concentrating on his task. John probably could have done this blindfolded, but speed wasn't his goal. He just hoped these guys didn't get too impatient.

The screen blinked. An image showed briefly on it, and Gordon bit hard on his lip in order not to react. A string of nonsensical symbols flashed across the screen, and he watched them avidly.

He couldn't help a sharp intake of breath as the monitor's information abruptly changed, interrupting the scroll. While Five was blind to Three's approach, she was still able to sense that a ship was in the process of docking, and take appropriate action. A soft thump reverberated, followed by the familiar whirr of the airlock clamps.

"Damn," said Rob, having caught the last screen change and made the appropriate conclusion. "Too late." He looked sullenly at Brad. "They're here."

**Author's note** - Ever notice in the series, Scott's always saying, "Virgil, what's your ETA?" and other variations of Virgil-why-aren't-you-here-yet? I'll bet young Scott was the one bouncing in the back seat of the car and saying–every five minutes–"Are we there yet?" Don't you?

Advanced apology - The new semester has started for me. While this story has been plotted and written out, the remaining chapters do need polishing yet. I will publish them as soon as possible, but–since graduation is this December–school has to, regretfully, take precedence. My apologies, especially since I'm leaving all you readers hanging.


	16. Pi Ori

_She's in one piece._

Leaving Virgil and Scott to handle the docking procedure, Jeff divided his attention between visual inspection of the space station, and monitoring the weapons protocol data sent from the island. And his thoughts.

Unlike a year ago, when concerns for his son's safety were augmented by the visible damage to Thunderbird Five, this docking was no different from a regular supply run. Except for, of course, the threat she was currently presenting.

He'd rather it were the other way. At least then he'd had some idea of what he was walking into, parameters for what to expect once inside. With Five looking as normal as she did, his imagination had no restraints to work within. And–with two sons involved this time–his personal feelings threatened a rampage.

Soft reverberations throughout the bulkheads announced that the docking process was complete. Scott hurried to the hatch controls, securing Three to the docking arm, while his brother shut down systems no longer needed. The Rangers retreated to the right side of Three, the only place that offered a modicum of concealment, conferring softly among themselves. Virgil moved up to the command post, watching with Jeff as Scott worked on connection to Five.

Three's side of the portal finally opened. Jeff glanced at Virgil–who remained at the command station–then at MacAndrew. The lieutenant met his gaze and nodded. Whatever happened, they would just have to play the cards as they fell.

Jeff and Scott traversed the short distance down the corridor to Five's airlock. Again, they paused, while Scott punched in the access code. The airlock door hesitated–causing a brief moment of concern–then hissed open, and they stepped cautiously into the station.

Their entrance apparently caught Five's occupiers off guard. The larger of the terrorists jerked Gordon back from the console. Shielded by his hostage, he retreated toward the personnel area. Once sufficiently distanced from his partner, he halted, and poised a large army-style knife under Gordon's jaw. The warning hit Jeff like a physical blow.

"John!"

Scott's exclamation drew Jeff's attention to the near side of the control center, where the other players in this drama had moved. His second son stood there, pale and shaky, clinging to the edge of the console for support. Behind John stood another man, with a handgun pointed in their direction. The stain on the shoulder of John's uniform defined both his suspicions and fears. Suddenly, Jeff had doubts that their plan would work.

Impulsively, Scott started toward his injured brother. Jeff snatched at him, catching enough of his uniform to pull him back. Growling, Scott shook off the hold, then froze. The gun's muzzle now rested at the base of John's neck.

"Hold it right there," snapped Brad. His hand had moved to Gordon's neck, forcing his captive's head back. The knife pressed in, scoring, and Gordon winced. "Rob, check 'em."

Jeff's expression was carefully neutral as Rob moved forward. He submitted to the search, focusing his attention on the hostages–his sons. His gaze moved from John to Gordon–assessing the condition of both–then back to John.

Once finished with Jeff, Rob shifted his attention to Scott. Resting one hand on the handle of his gun, he gestured for Jeff to move away from them. Jeff complied, glancing at his eldest.

Scott was furious. Never one to take threats lightly–especially threats to his family–he glared at Rob, silently challenging him. Subsiding only after the admonitory look from Jeff, he yielded to the search without verbal protest.

Jeff watched the man perfunctorily, his attention focused on the pair behind him. Only the tightening of his mouth betrayed his feelings. "'S okay," said Rob, pulling his gun back out. He backed toward Brad and Gordon, stopping just in front of them.

Eschewing permission to move, Jeff hurried toward his nearest son. "John," he said, worry spilling over into his voice. He slung his son's good arm over his shoulder, frowning as a violent shiver descended over the younger man. "Easy, there," he said, as John collapsed against him.

Struggling to stay upright, John looked at his father. "Dad," he protested, "Gordon. . . ."

"Let's go," Jeff urged. When John resisted, he added softly, "Trust me."

Scott moved to his brother's other side, steadying and supporting him. The pyretic heat of his brother's body caused a range of emotions to flash across his face. They coalesced into cold fury, and he glared back at the guilty parties. "Come on, JJ," he said deliberately, ignoring John's grimace of distaste at the nickname.

"Hold it" Brad called, as they headed for the airlock. He gestured to the corridor leading to Three. "Rob, check it out."

Jeff and Scott exchanged collaborative glances. They paused, allowing Rob to move past them and into Thunderbird Three. Moments later, indistinct sounds of protest wafted back from the cockpit. It sounded as though Virgil was not enthralled with the idea.

The attitude of the knife changed, as Brad relaxed, his hand moving to Gordon's shoulder. Gordon shifted, and the two bottles dug into his thigh, reminding him. "Wait," he said, pulling the one from his pocket. He felt the restraint tighten again, and protested, "I have to send this with him."

Brad hesitated, already troubled that Rob was taking so long to check out the rocket.

"Aw, c'mon," Gordon argued, "he might need this before they get back." _It's lame, but it's the only stall I can think of,_ he added, with a mental cross of his fingers.

"All right," said Brad, uncomfortably. He glanced once more at the airlock, but Rob still hadn't returned. "Make it quick." His grip shifted, again forcing Gordon's head back, and the knife settled in. "Just one of you," he said, to the waiting trio.

Seconds slowed, as Jeff looked at Scott, a silent debate passing between them. Acquiescing, the elder Tracy nodded, and touched his earpiece. "Virgil, give us a hand here," said Jeff. He added quietly, "_Mark."_

Time stretched even further, before Virgil hurried down the corridor, disheveled and surreptitiously nursing a bruised fist. He stopped, taken aback by his brother's condition, then–with a quick nod–collected himself and continued forward. Scott relinquished his aegis of John, steadying him until he was sure that Virgil had hold of their brother. Then he stepped back into Five, waiting by the airlock's hatch.

Brad had moved forward, keeping Gordon in front of him, until they stood even with the access tunnel. He watched the trio in the tunnel, ensuring that none were returning to the station, then looked back at Scott "Move," he said abruptly, absently tightening his grip. Gordon struggled to release it, the bottle falling from his hand. Its solitary tablet rattled as it hit the deck.

Scott's expression darkened. He glanced behind him, confirming that his father and brothers were no longer in the airlock corridor. His gaze remained there for a few seconds, then returned to his adversary. Nodding once, he walked slowly toward the two of them.

"Far enough." Keeping his hold on his hostage, Brad sheathed the knife, and brought out a handgun. Only then did he release Gordon.

The sudden absence of pressure on his throat caused Gordon to stagger. Feeling more than a little light-headed, he shook his head, and unconsciously tugged at his collar. He scooped the bottle from the floor, and walked toward Scott.

"Far enough," Brad repeated.

Gordon handed over the container, and Scott took it, tucking it into his pocket. His earpiece buzzed twice, softly, and he hesitated, as if judging something. He glanced at his brother, an odd expression on his face, then smiled and reached, as if to ruffle Gordon's hair.

The movement confused Gordon, as no one–other than Dad–had done than to him for a couple of years. Not since his height had overshot Virgil's, and matched John's, leaving only Dad and Scott taller than him. Alan, as always, was still fair game.

The gesture caught his captor off guard also, as Scott's arm came down, harder than either of them expected. Gordon ducked–an instinct spawned from being fourth in a line of brothers–and braced for the blow. From somewhere–_inside Three?_–he heard someone yell, "Go, go, go!" The voice was followed seconds later by Scott himself slamming into Gordon, knocking them both toward the floor.

"Roll with it, Splash," Scott muttered. Relying on his additional leverage to restrain his brother, he let the momentum of his tackle propel both of them across the floor, away from the black blur emerging from the airlock. They tumbled toward the bulkhead, coming to rest in a tangle. Scott held Gordon there, ignoring the muffled protests from him, and listened intently to the sounds from the sortie behind them.

Guessing–_hoping_–that the other situation was under control when those sounds subsided, Scott released his brother, and rolled away, pushing himself to his knees. He glanced at the Rangers, watching as they finally subdued Brad. A regretful expression crossed his face briefly, and one hand curled furtively into a fist. He looked back at Gordon. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Gordon gasped, more than a little breathless. Grimacing–for Scott had hit him harder than he considered necessary–he sat up. He watched the procedures at the control center, then glanced roguishly at Scott. "You've been working out," he commented.

Scott burst out laughing, drawing curious looks from the Special Ops guys as they secured the remaining terrorist. "Y'think?" he said, then quipped, "Been practicing on Alan." He got to his feet, and extended one hand. Gordon took it, allowing Scott to pull him up and into a one-armed hug.

Releasing Gordon–though not completely–Scott inspected his brother. Noting the scabbed cut under Gordon's jaw, the reddened area on the side of his face, and the blood stains on the uniform, his expression hardened. "You okay?" he asked, his mind flashing back to John's injuries.

"I'm fine," Gordon assured him. He rubbed at the fresh cut on his neck, feeling it itch. "Just a scratch." Brushing futilely at the stains on his uniform, he was dismayed to see fresh streaks of blood mark the white fabric.

Scott reached for Gordon's hand and turned it over, displayed the cuts there. He looked enquiringly at his younger brother, who shrugged. Rolling his eyes in exasperation, Scott released the hand, and headed toward the airlock. With his brother's arm still curled protectively around him, Gordon had no choice but to follow.

They paused at the airlock, as Lieutenant MacAndrew exited the tunnel. He escorted a bound Rob, both looking worse for the wear. "Pickup in twenty minutes," he informed his men. He turned to the brothers, asking. "You guys all right?"

"Yeah." Scott met his gaze, nodding in both acknowledgment and thanks.

"What about the other stations?" asked Gordon.

The lieutenant smiled–a hard, satisfied smile. "ASP's personnel broke out of their confinement, and retook the station. They cut contact with the other stations, then sent a team over to ISS to disable it. ISS's crew and terrorists fled back to the nearest station–which just happened to be ASP." He paused momentarily, and grinned. "The guys over there weren't too happy at being locked up."

"Nor at finding out you guys were under the gun, too," added Cody.

"Anyway," MacAndrew continued, relinquishing his prisoner to the sergeants, "the one at IWN will be surrendering . . . " he glanced at his watch in anticipation ". . . any minute now."

"Good," said Scott. He released Gordon, and gave him a slight shove toward the airlock. "Go on," he said, "They're waiting." At Gordon's bewildered look, he added lightly, "I'm staying here. Someone has to man the fort."

"Right," said Gordon, dryly. He started down the corridor to Thunderbird Three, then stopped, and looked back at his brother.

Scott had settled at Five's console. Deep in discussion with the lieutenant, he reset those controls that Gordon had shut down, pausing occasionally in his conversation to concentrate on a given protocol. The two sergeants and their prisoners were out of sight, waiting patiently in the service corridor.

Gordon watched them for a few seconds, then moved slightly forward, pulling the airlock door closed. He fastened it, then turned and headed into Thunderbird Three.


	17. Rho Ori

He made his way through the docking arm and into Thunderbird Three. A right turn at the T-shaped junction brought him to the entrance of Three's cockpit, blocked by two of its occupants. Sensing his presence, the taller of the two looked in his direction.

"Gordon!"

His apprehension dissolving into relief, Jeff stepped forward and grasped his son by the shoulders. After a brief inspection, he enfolded his son in an intense hug, then set him back for a more thorough examination. Jeff frowned as he noted the cuts on his son's neck, the bruise on the side of his face, and the stains on the front of Gordon's uniform. He glanced at John, then back at Gordon.

"Not his," Gordon reassured him. He curled his right hand again into a fist, unwilling for anyone to see that injury. John was enough to worry about. His father nodded in acknowledgment, and released him, turning back toward his two other sons. Gordon risked a glance at his brother.

_He looks like something bleached out in the wash. _Sweat had darkened John's hair, and caused it to curl into locks, a trait that had always annoyed John. His eyes were again closed, as he relinquished his struggle for consciousness. Virgil brought the safety harness down, inadvertently hitting the injured shoulder. John winced, eliciting a soft apology from his brother.

Having finished his assessment, Virgil rose and headed toward his younger brother. "Hey, Splash," he said. He reached up, as if to ruffle Gordon's hair, then dropped to his brother's shoulder instead, gripping it tightly. Their eyes met briefly, then looked away, embarrassed by mutual emotion. Virgil released his grip, and headed toward the pilot's seat, carefully skirting the jump seat.

In protest, Gordon looked at his father, as Virgil settled in position. Jeff indicated the second passenger seat, but Gordon shook his head obstinately. "Dad," he complained

"Don't get him mad," said a faint voice from behind them. John's grin was substantially subdued, but still present as he quipped, "He gets violent when you-" A spasm of shivering interrupted him.

Pressed for time, and mildly exasperated, Jeff shrugged. He nodded at the copilot's seat. Gordon was not only as stubborn as any Tracy, but also–as Jeff's mother-in-law had pointed out many times–as mulish as his maternal grandfather. And this was not the moment to be arguing with him.

"But. . . ." Gordon protested. .

Jeff raised one eyebrow, and Gordon subsided. The young man moved to the copilot's seat, his mutinous expression as clear as if he were speaking. Jeff smiled and flicked on the communications switch. "Thunderbird Five, we are initiating separation."

"F.A.B., Thunderbird Three," Scott responded.

Thunderbird Three rumbled as her main engine ignited. The airlock gave a final click of disengagement, and the rocket shuddered slightly. For a moment she drifted, suspended in the exosphere. Then the starboard retros fired, the boosters kicked in, and Three pulled away from her sister. Her nose pointed toward Earth, she settled into her parabolic orbit, moving just under her top speed. Virgil wasn't wasting any time getting home.

He looked for the course adjustments, since they were not running the optimal orbit for rendevous with Tracy Island, but there were none.That _was_ the copilot's job, unless Three was running with a single pilot. Irritated, he glanced over at Gordon, ready to tell him off.

Gordon was staring at the display in front of them, but Virgil was willing to bet his next paycheck that his brother wasn't seeing it. His right hand curled loosely around the control stick, as if it hurt to hold the thing, and he just seemed . . . well, out of it.

Virgil bit back the remonstration, and did the calculations himself. As concerned as he was for John, Gordon must be twice as wired, considering. _Cut him some slack,_ he reminded himself It was easy to forget that Gordon was still pretty new to International Rescue himself, that he'd only been actively involved for just under two years. And then to get something like this thrown at him, with all the _what-if_ possibilities. _If I'd been up there_ . . . he didn'twant to think about that.

He searched for something to say, something to snap Gordon back into the moment. Seizing the first thought that popped into his head, he said, "That was pretty good, using Morse to tell us what to expect," he said, "But Brains couldn't make out the rest of your code."

"My code?" Startled back into the present, Gordon stared at his brother.

"Yeah. You sent a message that there was one knife, and one gun on board."

"I. . . oh." Gordon's confusion turned to embarrassment. "Oh, that. I was, uh, just . . . just, uh. . . ." He looked down at his board and muttered something inaudible.

"What?" Virgil gaped at him, then burst out laughing, drawing a quizzical look from their father.

Gordon managed a sheepish smile, and focused his attention on the course adjustments. Halfway through his calculations, he realized that Three was already on the course he was plotting. He glanced guiltily at Virgil, who returned the look smugly.

He refocused his attention on the board in front of him. Concentrating on the task of co-flying Three somewhat lessened the persistent urge to turn around and check on John. He barely heard his father contacting the island, instructing Alan to prepare Thunderbird One for the flight to Queen's. Then his mind wandered, and Virgil had to repeat several requests for information.

Something hit the side of his head, startling him from his wool-gathering. A red-and-white glove fell into his lap, its fingers curled, leaving the thumb to point accusingly at him. Gordon stared at it, then looked up at the culprit.

"Earth to Splash Gordon," Virgil said, a hint of impatience in his expression, "Retros, bro."

Gordon opened his mouth to retort, then–lacking an appropriate rejoinder–shut it. He tossed the glove back at its owner, and resolutely turned back to his controls, setting up the landing sequence for the retros.

"Boys," Jeff warned. Landing was no time for horseplay.

Virgil grinned as he caught the glove and shook it out, laying it aside while he guided Three toward her silo. Then, noting marks on the glove that hadn't been there before, he frowned and looked at his brother in concern.

"You're clear," his father said, "Take her in. Easy does it."

"F.A.B." Virgil responded, turning his attention back to the task at hand. "And cool the backseat driving, okay?"

Jeff smiled. After-action banter was sorely missing on this run. Most of it came from Scott, anyway. He glanced at the seat behind him, but John had ceded his fight for consciousness. His scrutiny moved forward–Gordon _was _looking a bit shell-shocked. _The sooner we get to Queen's, the better._

The reverberations from her engines layered upon themselves, increasing in volume as Three slid into her silo. Her interior dimmed during her descent, and she rocked slightly as she settled into position. Their surroundings darkened further as the roundhouse slid back into position, then brightened as the silo lights came on.

"Good job," Jeff said automatically, flipping the safety harness behind him. "Let's get him into Thunderbird One."

It was a struggle, getting John from Three–via the narrow catwalks of its silo–into International Rescue's hanger, then over to One's equally narrow catwalks. Jeff cursed himself for the design flaw, and for failing to envision this possibility. Thankfully, Brains and Kyrano had provided a stretcher from the infirmary, easing their movement across the hanger.

They paused at the personnel elevator just inside One's silo. Given its limited capacity, Gordon and Alan elected to take their brother up first. Seizing the opportunity, Virgil motioned his father aside. He pulled the glove from his pocket, and handed it over.

Jeff examined the glove, then looked up at the silo catwalks where Gordon and Alan were moving John into One. A grim expression settled over his face, and he handed the glove back to Virgil. "Virgil, you and Alan will have to take one of the jets, and meet us there."

"F.A.B.,"said Virgil. As he headed for the tunnel to the civilian hanger, he yelled up at his brother, "C'mon, Sprout. _Move_ it."

The two youngest Tracys scrambled down from the catwalk. Alan shot a quick glance at his father, then raced after Virgil. Gordon made as if to follow, but a gesture from his father stayed him.

Jeff turned to his fourth son. "Gordon. . . ."

The mutinous look returned to Gordon's eyes, the only spark in an otherwise expressionless face. He looked at Jeff, and said quietly, "I'll go with them."

"No, you're with me," Jeff told him firmly. The lack of emotion bothered him, and he hesitated, not wanting to push too hard. But Gordon needed to be checked out as well. He'd hidden one injury from them already. And Jeff was well aware of how far the boys would push themselves for a mission. His voice softened slightly. "I need you to keep an eye on John," he said, hoping the appeal would sway Gordon.

Slowly, reluctantly, Gordon nodded. "Let's go," Jeff said. They entered the elevator, heading up to One's cockpit..

Brains had remained there, keeping watch over John. "He's still unconscious," Brains stuttered, "and he-"

"Thanks, Brains," Jeff interrupted. He felt sure that Gordon was already castigating himself for the limited medical services, and didn't need reminding.

"Ah, understood." The engineer watched as Gordon navigated his way to the far passenger seat and settled in. He looked knowingly at Jeff, and added, "Good luck."

Jeff nodded, and eased himself into the pilot's seat, pulling the safety restraint over him. The canopy slowly closed, its sections locking in sequence. He waited until Brains had moved into the silo elevator, before activating One's engine startup.

The visibility in the silo shifted, as the lights dimmed and the diving pool began its retreat. Echoes resonated from the quintet of engines, shaking the narrow area with vibrations. A shadow streaked across the opening–Virgil and Alan, with one of the family jets, trying to get a head start on them. The catwalks and bracings pulled back from the ship, and Thunderbird One blasted from her silo.


	18. Sigma Ori

Dad had left orders–and Virgil enforced them–that he get checked out by the ER doctors. Still protesting, Gordon had acquiesced only after he was assured by all parties that John was already in surgery. Even then, he'd had barely enough patience to sit through the examination.

Like everyone else so far, the staff had been momentarily freaked by the blood on his uniform, until they realized it wasn't his. _Well, most of it, anyway. _He watched the examination remotely, feeling more and more distant as it proceeded. As if it were happening to someone else.

Beyond the small lacerations, as well as assorted bruises and a shiner to match John's, the ER staff had found nothing worth keeping him overnight for. They'd bandaged the cuts to his neck and hand, and released him, theoretically to Dad's custody.

But Dad was up on the surgical wing, waiting on John. Virgil and Alan, however, were more than willing substitutes, hassling him through a cleanup and into civilian clothes before accompanying him–like a transferred prisoner–to the surgical waiting room. He let them, even Alan, whom he'd never taken orders from before. It was easier. Their voices were like shutters, closing out the hospital goings-on and leaving him alone with himself.

Once they'd gotten to the waiting room, Dad had looked him over a second time, reassessing both injuries and treatment. He said little else, but Gordon knew that was only a temporary reprieve. Mission analysis would come later, and he dreaded that. The four of them settled on the couches.

And waited.

Alan couldn't sit still. His concern expressed itself in constant motion, squirming in the chair, and frequent trips to bank of vending machines down the hall. The half-hearted admonitions from his father stilled him momentarily, then he was in motion again.

Virgil flipped through ancient mechanic's magazines. From time to time he glanced at the waiting room's clock, having forgotten his watch. Occasionally, he sparred with Alan, and attempted to do the same with Gordon. But he gave up on latter, due to the lack of response from that brother.

Like his father, Gordon remained still, an unusual feat for him. But where Jeff would caution Alan, or offer a comment to Virgil or to him, Gordon was silent–unless directly addressed. The whole situation seemed surreal, as though he was watching from a distance. A distance that continued to increase.

_He sprawled across the control room deck, wondering why such a small handgun had such a big kick. Not even in his brief flirtation with WASP, could he remember any weapon recoiling that way. Moments passed, slow and agonizing, before he realized that it had not been the weapon's recoil, but the tackle from the other guy–Rob?–that had knocked him over. And in the process, he'd lost possession of the handgun. But at least he'd given John the chance to break free from his captor, because they'd been wrestling for the weapon seconds later._

_Hadn't he?_

His arm abruptly shifted, jolting his body off balance, and wrenching him back to the present.

"Hey, Gord, wake up." Alan stood over him, bouncing impatiently. He jerked his head toward the waiting room door, where the surgeon was in deep discussion with their father and Virgil. "C'mon." He pulled at Gordon, nearly dragging him from the chair.

Gordon allowed himself to be drawn into the group. Through the miasma of his thoughts, he caught a few salient phrases, and understood that John had made it through the surgery without serious complications. He saw the smiles of relief from his brothers, the relaxation of his father's grim expression. But that knowledge brought him no relief, evoked no reaction whatsoever.

"I'll tell Scott," he volunteered, knowing that it would get him away from the others.

Jeff looked at him, holding his gaze for a moment. Gordon met that gaze, without the least inclination to fidget, before his father finally nodded acknowledgment. He'd turned his attention back to the surgeon, questioning some point with him, as Gordon slipped away.

break/break/break/shouldbewhitespaceherebutff.nwillnotallowit/break/break/break

There was no swimming pool to work off his feelings. And the ocean was just far enough away that his absence would worry the others. But the fourth floor ICU gardens looked close enough to home, that he felt–if not better–at least, less worse.

Gordon found a spot, semi-sheltered by plants, and settled his back against a fairly hefty pot. Drawing his knees up against his chest, he wrapped his arms around them, holding himself as though he'd shatter in an instance. He blinked rapidly, willing the emotions battling within him to stay there, and tried to quell the shaking within.

_Staggering as he cradled his brother, easing the inert body to the deck. The small hole–Oh, shit, no! Please!–and the red on that field of white. There shouldn't be red there. The jumpsuit and the shirt both resisting his frantic tugs. _

He had to call Scott yet, he'd said that he would. It was his excuse for getting away from the others. But at the moment, the last twenty-four hours were catching up to him with a vengeance. _I aimed at the other guy–Brad? Not John._ But the demons in his brain taunted him. _The bullet was in John, not Brad. That's why John needed surgery. Remember?_

He wished he were still a kid–like Alan–and back on the island, where he could run to Ohana and have her take care of the pain. The last thing he wanted to deal with was his family, especially when they found out who had actually shot John. _I wasn't trying to. I didn't aim at _him

_But you succeeded_. John_ is the one going through surgery. Not Brad. _John_ is the one fighting an infection from a bullet that went through someone else first. _

Gordon didn't know how long he'd sat there in the gardens, wrestling himself, before he stirred from his hiding spot. He debated about moving outside to call Scott, then decided against it. This late at night, the gardens were still empty, and the chances of his being overheard were slim.

He flicked on the wrist communicator, adjusting the setting for Five's frequency. Scott's image formed quickly on the small screen, and the expression on his brother's face sent additional stabs of guilt on Gordon's already tormented conscience.

"Gordy." Scott spoke without preamble. "How is he?"

It was an effort to keep his voice pitched normally, for he'd felt as though he'd left all his emotions up on Five. "He made through the surgery all right," Gordon said, carefully, "They're still concerned about infection, though."

Scott sighed in relief. "That's not unexpected," he said. "God knows what that jackass was carrying. Let alone what was on the bullet to begin with." He smiled, assuming Gordon's impassive expression indicated puzzlement. "John didn't like the idea of a gun up on Five," he continued, "I wouldn't be surprised if he'd dumped it in the trash compactor. 'Accidently,' of course," He shook his head ruefully. "I'm the one who cleaned it, and made sure it worked."

Gordon remained silent. Scott was also the one who had made sure he'd known that the gun was aboard, and where John was likely to have stowed it. His conscience stabbed him again. Given the chance then to vote the way he felt now, he would have agreed with John.

The door to the gardens opened. Gordon stiffened, then said softly into the communicator, "Someone's coming."

"Gordon?" Alan's voice was low, almost a whisper. "Gordon, you in here?"

Gordon winced, and muttered something that Scott didn't quite catch. He glanced up, watching Alan search for him, and missed the disquieted frown forming on his eldest brother.

"_Gor_-don." The volume increased slightly.

He could tell Alan was getting impatient, what with breaking his name in two like that, and stressing the first syllable. Accenting the second syllable usually meant you were in deep shit. It was a habit they'd picked up from Dad, but it only worked decently with the younger three. Unless you stuck two "oh" sounds in the middle, it was hard to break _Scott_ or _John _into two syllables properly.

_John._ Gordon felt as if an invisible fist had just punched him.

Scott was looking at him–via the view screen–with a troubled expression on his face. Gordon knew he was acting, well, _flaky,_ but he couldn't help it. It was almost as if he wanted to get caught, wanted Scott or someone to pound the crap out of him. And any minute now, Alan was going to. . . .

"_There_ you are," Alan said. He looked annoyed. "Geez, Gordon, why're you hiding up here? Virgil's waiting for us. Dad says. . . ."

"Alan, shut up, will you?"

Alan gawked at his brother, then realized that the words had not come from Gordon, but rather the communicator. Still, the abruptness of the command irritated him, since he'd done nothing to deserve it. He scowled, and moved behind Gordon, peering over his brother's shoulder at the communicator, vexing his brother in turn.

"Gord, what the hell is bugging you?" Exasperation finally prodded Scott into asking. He would rather have asked the question when Alan wasn't hanging over Gordon, but Gordon was acting a bit too off to let it go. And he couldn't ensure that Alan would leave if he were told to.

"Nothing," said Gordon.

Identical expressions reflected from Scott and Alan. It would have been funny, otherwise, but Gordon wasn't seeing the humor at the moment. The look on his own face did nothing do deflect his brothers' concern though, and Alan sought to reassure his brother. "It's not like it's your fault," Alan said, "They shot John, you didn't."

"No," Gordon's voice was flat and lifeless. "_They_ didn't."

Although his youngest brother didn't catch it, that lack of emotion sent icicles down Scott's spine. They collected into a cold ball of suspicion, and he just knew Alan was about to put his foot in his mouth. "Alan. . ."

"Of course they did," Alan said, giving Gordon a puzzled look. "Who else could have . . . oh." His eyes widened, as he digested the information. "Oh," he repeated, lamely.

Scott sucked in his breath, and hesitated. This was definitely eggshell-territory. "Dear Abby" he wasn't, and what Gordon needed was neither his nor Alan's to give. _Not, _he recognized ruefully, _that he could do_ _anything_ _anyway, up here on Thunderbird Five. _He sighed, wishing he could've had a couple of minutes with Dad prior to this being dumped on him. Psych 101 was not his strong point.

"John made it through surgery all right," he finally said, trying to pick his words carefully, "You said so yourself. For cryin' out loud, Gord, it was an _accident_. It's not like you were trying to shoot him." He scrubbed both hands through his hair in exasperation, seriously considering some means of beating sense into Gordon. _Literally._ He briefly wondered if Alan would, then quickly dismissed the idea.

"It was sheer, dumb luck," he continued, "Look, Gordy, if you _had_ shot the guy like you'd intended, this whole thing might not've even happened." The stricken look on his brother's face told him he'd managed to do exactly what he'd been trying to avoid. _Way to go, Scott,_ he scolded,_ now who's got foot-in-mouth disease. _"Oh, shit," he growled, "Alan, will you just kick him, or something?"

"Try it, "Gordon muttered mutinously.

For once, Alan didn't respond, and Scott was grateful for that. And for the fact that Gordon was fighting back, albeit half-heartedly. He'd seen enough of this in his short tour with the Air Force, but there'd always been someone better equipped than him to deal with it. What he didn't need was a complete breakdown, with only Alan physically there to handle it. _This was John's forte, damn it._

Scott shook that thought off, unwilling to jinx John's recovery in any way, and briefly considered calling Dad. The hospital had policies against cell phone use in certain areas, but he wasn't sure if that extended to other communicators. Especially if Dad was where he'd bet he was. But that wasn't possible, not while he was talking with Gordon.

He sighed again. "You're staying at the Hawaiian Village tonight, right?" Barely catching Alan's nod of assent, he added, "Look, why don't you give me a call when you get there?" He wished he could say something to Alan, to pass on some warning to Virgil. But with Gordon right there–_and it was _his_ communicator_–he couldn't chance setting off a chain of events that he would regret.

"Yeah, maybe we should go," Alan said, "Virgil's looking for us. Dad said there was no sense in us waiting around for John . . . " he choked slightly, at Gordon's look, then finished, ". . . for John to get out of recovery."

"Go," said Scott, "Before somebody comes in there." He looked at Gordon, not sure how much expression would carry over the communicator, and scowled. "Gord, call me when you get there." He paused, trying to look as forbidding as possible. "I mean it."

There was no response, not even an F.A.B. His brothers' images were replaced, briefly by static, then by data regarding a solar flare he'd been monitoring. Not that he was all that interested in solar flares, but John had mentioned something about them a couple weeks ago, and he'd lay dollar to doughnuts that it was one of the reasons John had elected to stay on Five.

Scott walked across the control room, past the airlock of the docking arm, and toward the small room that served as the control center for John's telescope. He'd already shifted Five's position within her orbit, in order to get maximum visibility. Now all he had to do was put the

filter–the hydrogen-whatchamacallit filter–on the telescope and set the computer to record.

He found what he thought was the right filter–and if it wasn't, well, John would probably make him buy a new one, as well asa new telescope–and fitted it in place. A glance at his hastily scribbled notes, a few keystrokes at the terminal in that room, and he'd bet he'd gotten enough to keep John busy for a while.

He returned to the control room, drumming his fingers impatiently where John's man-in-the-ball use to sit. _They should've gotten to the hotel by now. Unless Virg went and dumped him in the pool._ They all had their ways of working off mission stress, and swimming was Gordon's. Though Scott had his doubts that swimming–unless Gordon pushed himself to complete exhaustion–would work off what his little brother was dealing with.

Scott walked across the control center, lightly running his hand over the star globe as he moved past. Unlike the man-in-the-ball, it had been replaced after . . . he pushed that thought away.

He stopped in the galley, rooting the refrigerator for a bottle of water. Twisting off the cap, he downed a hefty slug before belatedly realizing who had been most recently stationed on Five. Luckily, this bottle was clean. He carelessly recapped the bottle.

He paused by the stateroom shared by John and Gordon. It had been John's alone, by tacit agreement, until Gordon joined the rotations and had to move in somewhere. He and Virgil used the other stateroom. _Jeez, we're gonna have to put Alan somewhere,_ he thought absently, followed immediately by, _Not my bunk!_

The bunks themselves were rumpled–John's more so than Gordon's–and looked as if their occupants had just left them. Both pillows were on John's bunk. The portable first-aid kit's contents spilled across the small set of drawers between the bunks, the minute carnage continuing onto Gordon's bunk.

A stray blue wrapper–missed when its companions had been scooped into the nearby wastebasket–lay on the floor, along with a small piece of paper. The air circulation system kicked in, causing them to eddy across the deck. The wrapper danced into the corridor, but the other curled over his shoe, clinging as for dear life.

The fans stopped, and the paper rolled back onto the floor, displaying a sinuous column of six numbers and two words. Recognizing Gordon's handwriting, Scott reached for the white rectangle, puzzled by the odd arrangement. Only when he read the words-haphazardly spelled–did he realize what the paper represented.

Scott swore, and straightened up, leaving the paper on the floor. He'd never understood that thing about straws and camel's backs until now, and he badly needed to hit something. One hand connected forcibly with the bulkhead, causing the forgotten bottle to cave in. Its loose cap popped off and rolled down the corridor. A small wave of water splashed at him, lightly soaking his sleeve and spattering the front of the jumpsuit.

_Don't wait for Gordon. Call Dad. _Scott tossed the bottle into the galley's sink. Ignoring his abused hand, he headed back to the control room.


	19. Tau Ori

The hums and faint clicks of the monitors were an welcome distraction, even though they were the wrong sort of machinery. Accustom to–no, _comfortable_–as Jeff was with machine shop and engine noises, as well as multiple computer systems running simultaneously, the near-silence of the hospital's recovery room was almost unbearable. Then again, hospitals just _were_.

The nurse made her rounds every fifteen minutes. Sometimes, after her assessment and documentation were finished, she'd ask if he needed anything. Aware of the pressure he'd created with his insistence on being in the recovery room, he usually declined. Only once had he requested a glass of water. It was not the hospital's policy to allow family members there. His presence was only by the grace of the surgeon, and his own reputation, and he knew it.

He'd sent the younger boys to the hotel–the one used regularly by Tracy Industries. There was no need for them to wait here, and they needed the break. The last twenty-fours hours had been hard on them, especially Gordon. _But he'd done a damn good job, considering. They all had._

It wasn't often that he waited in a hospital proper. There was an infirmary on the island, and Ohana, Kyrano, and Brains could usually handle most medical emergencies between them. Bruises, lacerations, even broken bones–albeit simple fractures, so far–were taken care of there, whether incurred in line-of-duty, or by virtue of the existence of five very active boys. He was eternally grateful that the Belagants had agreed to come work for him. But Ohana had always known when a situation was beyond her ken, and he had trusted her judgement. And surgery requiring anesthesia was one of those areas in which she drew her line.

Time dragged as he watched his son, the lithe body unnaturally still from residual anesthesia and pain medication. He saw his concern reflected in the nurse's expression each time she checked on John. That narcotic-produced inertia was something Jeff had never gotten used to, in either of the boys it affected. Conveniently, he ignored the fact that he also possessed those same symptoms.

Lulled by inactivity, he'd drifted into an almost meditative state. He'd also slumped down in the chair, far enough to crack his head on the back of the chair if he wasn't careful–or awake. Jeff pushed himself up, and glanced around, wincing as his back protested the move. A fresh glass of water stood next to him, and he realized that he had missed the most recent visit of the nurse.

John was still unconscious. But the equipment in the room continued to hum comfortingly, until it was interrupted by an insistent beeping. Jeff looked at the monitors, searching each one carefully for the source of the sound.

It took him a few seconds to recognize that it was his communicator. He stood, and moved into the hallway, unwilling to disturb John or the other patients. After a quick check that no one was in the immediate vicinity, he flicked the setting to "Receive."

His eldest son's image flickered into view. "Dad," Scott said, sounding both relieved and restive.

"Didn't Gordon call you?" Jeff couldn't help the hint of annoyance that crept into his voice as he glanced back at John. The last thing he needed, after arguing his way into recovery, was to be evicted because of communicator use within the hospital. But then, Scott had never been one to keep his emotions bottled up. Jeff knew–as protective as Scott was about his brothers–that the last twenty-four hours had been hard on his volatile firstborn. And given those parameters, Thunderbird Five was not exactly the best place for Scott right now.

"Yeah, but. . . ."

"But?"

Scott hedged. "He was acting kinda weird, when he called about John." He knew he should reveal Gordon's confession, for the potential repercussions were definitely out of his league. But sibling solidarity abruptly kicked in, and he couldn't quite bring himself to do so. "He, uh. . . ."

After twenty-odd years, those signs were easily recognizable to Jeff–especially in the older boys. Scott's hesitance was a major red flag. Steeling himself, he asked pointedly, "Scott?"

Scott sighed. "Dad, he . . ." An insistent beeping interrupted him, and he scowled. "Aw, shit." His image disappeared briefly.

Jeff frowned, thoughts of parental delinquency unexpectedly flooding him. Gordon's injuries had seemed minor, based on Jeff's own assessment and the fact that the emergency room had released him. He'd been unusually quiet since arriving at the hospital, but Jeff had chalked that up to stress from the situation and worry about John. Now, he felt the doubts–like corbies to a corpse–begin to gather.

Scott's image reappeared. "Bridge collapse," he said succinctly, "Busload of kids, caught on a canyon wall."

Jeff glanced at his unconscious son, briefly indecisive. Then the consummate rescue professional kicked in, pushing all other concerns from his mind. He turned back to the communicator. "Call Virgil. Tell him and Gordon . . ." he hesitated. But with John down, and Scott on Five, there was little choice. ". . . and Alan to meet me at Thunderbird One. You can give us details once we're airborne."

Something suspiciously like guilt flashed across Scott's face at one name, and he said dubiously, "But, Dad. . . ."

"It'll have to wait," Jeff said decisively, his parental worries buried in logistical concerns about the mission. This was going to be tight as is, with having to take the boys back to the island for Thunderbird Two.

Still looking doubtful, Scott responded, "F.A.B." The tiny screen went blank.

Remorse surfaced briefly, and Jeff moved back to the bed, debating whether to speak with the nurse before he left. He held onto the bed rail with one hand, watching his son. The other hand dropped to the blond hair, stroking it absently in a outgrown gesture. "John," Jeff said softly.

There was no reaction. "John, I gotta go." Jeff's hand moved to his son's uninjured shoulder, and lightly–regretfully–rested there.

John's eyes opened briefly, disoriented and distant. Void of recognition, they closed without further response. But then, anesthesia had never been kind to John. Jeff deeply regretted having to leave, for he knew too well what lay ahead in his son's return to consciousness.

"I'll be back," he promised. He stood there a moment longer, gathering professionalism around him like a cloak. Then he turned and left the recovery room.

Author's note: I apologize (again!) for the gaposis between chapters. New job, plus last semester of school, plus real life with family doesn't leave much time for writing. It's been like herding cats–and I've got two of them, too!


	20. Upsilon Ori

"Thunderbird Two, you airborne yet?"

"F.A.B., Thunderbird Five." Virgil couldn't help the snort of amusement. _The only thing more impatient than Scott during a rescue was Scott on Five during a rescue. _"Keep your shirt on. ETA is about fifteen minutes."

"All right, boys," their father's voice broke in. "Save it for afterwards. Right now, we've got a job to do."

Not quite suppressing the urge to make a rude gesture–which Scott couldn't see anyway–Virgil amended the motion into a stretch of his sore hand. The pain was an odd comfort though, a reminder that he'd landed one for John and Gordon. He smiled in satisfaction, as he scanned the locator screen for Thunderbird One's signal. _Come on, Dad_. _Where are you?_ He glanced out Two's viewports, searching the canyon walls.

"Got it," exclaimed Alan, "Bearing seven-zero-three."

"Seven-zero-three," Virgil echoed. He banked Two, swinging the leviathan on the new course. Twilight was settling in. The sunset and dimming light would make the rescue tricky at best.

Silence held sway, as they scanned for One's sleek silhouette. At least the canyon formerly spanned by the bridge wasn't unduly narrow, and he didn't have to worry about scraping Two on the canyon walls.

"Got a visual," Gordon reported.

"I see it," Virgil responded. Thunderbird One hovered like a dragonfly, about halfway down the canyon wall. As they drew nearer, they could see the crumpled shape of the school bus, caught on an outcropping of rock. "Jeez," he said softly.

Alan whistled. "How the he-" he stopped, and amended, "How'd they get caught _there_?"

"Helluva spot," Virgil groused. "Thunderbird One, what's the situation?"

"The bus seems secure for the moment," his father's voice responded, "Looks like you'll need the rescue platform, and safety harnesses as well. Probably need two of you on the platform."

"F.A.B., Thunderbird One." Virgil settled Thunderbird Two so she hovered over the hapless bus, then put her on autopilot. Thunderbird One darted from underneath, giving them room to work. He debated his options, then said, "Gordo, let's go. Alan, you got the con."

"F.A.B.," Alan echoed. Virgil noted that Alan didn't display the satisfied look he'd been showing lately when asked to take over one of the Thunderbirds. Instead, his youngest brother gave him a worried look as he slid into Virgil's vacated seat, as his brothers hurried toward the pod section. Virgil shrugged, dismissing it as mission nerves.

They grabbed their helmets on the way, then stepped within the confines of the rescue platform. Virgil glanced briefly at his brother, then spoke into the mike. "Okay, Alan," he said, "We're good to go."

Two's lower deck split, revealing the awesome drop to the canyon floor. The platform began its descent, swaying slightly. Thankfully, there wasn't much wind, but what there was caused both Tracys to brace themselves against the rescue platform's supports.

"Oh, crap," said Virgil softly. The very position of the bus–its roof against the canyon wall, and the chassis and heavier portions toward the canyon itself–was going to make getting the kids out tenuous at best. Although it looked to be rather solidly set on the ledge, he couldn't tell if it was supported completely, or just barely balanced.

The platform drew level with the bus, and they could see the figures inside, huddled up against the roof of the bus. Virgil glanced back at Thunderbird One, hovering behind them, then took at deep breath. "I'll go on the bus and get the kids out," he told Gordon, sincerely wishing it was Scott on One, and Dad up in Two. _And John on Five. _"You stabilize it with the rescue lines, then get them on the platform." Gordon nodded, and tapped in the codes that changed the lines to the equivalent of mini grappling hooks.

Clipping his harness to the platform, Virgil opened the gate, and stepped onto the side of the bus. It rocked slightly. He moved toward the roof of the bus, picking the midpoint of the vehicle for his destination. _Damn, this would be one of those buses with only one emergency door. _And that door–located at the back of the bus–was essentially useless. Gesturing to the adults inside, he steadied himself, waiting for the designated bus window to open. When it did, he asked, "Anybody hurt?".

"Two kids might have broken arms," responded the man who had opened the window. Balanced awkwardly on the backs of the bus seats, he had the sheepish grin of an adult who'd just been reprimanded by a child–probably for swearing. Judging by his uniform, he was probably the bus driver. "One definitely broken leg. The rest got lucky."

"Are they stabilized?"

"Yeah."

"How many are in there?"

The driver glanced back into the bus, as if to recount. "Fifteen, including myself and the teacher." He smiled ruefully, remembering the rebuke. "Third graders."

"Okay." _It would be tight on the rescue platform. Two trips for sure._ "We're gonna stabilize the bus, then get you guys outta there." Virgil shifted his weight, and the bus shifted with him. Noting that the rescue lines hadn't fired, Virgil glanced back at the platform. "Gordon," he said, mildly annoyed.

There was no response.

"Gor-_don_," His annoyance level increased. "Stabilize the da-"

Belatedly, the rescue lines fired, causing him to duck as they whistled overhead. The bus rocked vehemently as the lines hit, almost threatening to slide from the ledge. Then the lines buried themselves in the canyon wall. The motion upended Virgil, and he smacked down on the bus windows. _Damn, that hurt! _The second set fired moments later. The two hits, and subsequent cracking of the windows as he landed, elicited squeals of panic from inside the bus. He didn't blame them. For a moment, he thought they were all going over.

Virgil picked himself up, with a reminder to harm Gordon severely when this was over. "Okay," he told the bus' adult occupants, "Let's get them outta there." He hesitated, judging the situation. A sudden thought–_Scott can have this field commander crap. _He shook it off, concentrating on the situation at hand.

"Send up the teacher first," he instructed, "Then half the kids. We'll have to take them up in two batches. You come up with the second group."

"Got it." The driver seemed pretty collected, and Virgil was grateful for that. The man moved away from the window momentarily, apparently explaining the situation to the others.

Belatedly, an additional thought occurred to him. They'd have to release the cables in order to raise the rescue platform with the first load of kids. He'd barely processed that when the teacher scrabbled her way through the bus window.

He'd caught hold of her, steadying her as she was pushed and also pulled herself through the bus window. There was barely enough time to direct her toward the rescue platform, before the first kid came through that same window. He lifted each of them–steadying them–then guided each to the gate of the rescue platform. Gordon took it from there, moving them to the calming influence of their teacher.

Eight kids later, the platform was full, as he'd figured it would be. He swung the gate shut, and unclipped his harness from the platform. Securing it on the bus, he waved off his brother. As he turned back to the bus, he vaguely heard Gordon tell Alan to bring up the platform.

The bus rocked violently, upending him once again. Virgil scrambled to his feet, yelling into his mike, "Cut the cables! Cut the fucking cables!" The bus tilted again, sliding closer toward the edge. He staggered, clutching at his harness line to steady himself.

"Gordon." His father's voice–steady and serene–preempted the channel. The cables holding the bus suddenly slackened. The rescue platform hesitated briefly, then continued its ascent into Two's cargo hold.

"Virgil, what's your status?"

He took a deep breath, thinking violent thoughts at his brother. "Fine," he said abruptly, steadying himself. He didn't trust himself to say more, for he didn't want Dad in on this. Although why, he wasn't sure, other than it was between Gordon and him. Looking down at the bus, he added, "It's secure for the moment."

"F.A.B." Thunderbird One hovered momentarily into sight, ready to hold the bus by shear physical force if necessary. Its presence evoked more squeals as the remaining children–distracted from their situation–excitedly strained to see it.

"You're doing that on purpose." In spite of his simmering anger, Virgil smiled and shook his head at One.

"Doing what?" There wasn't even a hint of feigned innocence in his father's voice.

"Yeah, right." A couple more deep breaths–_he was beginning to sound like a racehorse–_and Virgil turned back to those left in the bus. "Okay," he said, "Next."

The next child to come through the window–a boy with big hazel eyes and bright red hair–didn't improve his mood any. But he was the one with the broken leg, so Virgil braced himself, cradling the boy as they waited for the rescue platform to return. _Six left, plus the driver._

His mood fell with the platform's descent. As soon as the gate swung open, Virgil handed the boy up to Gordon. Refusing to meet his brother's gaze, Gordon accepted the child from him, and turned into the platform to find a place to set him.

Six more times, Virgil handed a child over to his brother. And six times, Gordon managed not to look at him, which only increased Virgil's irritation. By the time the bus driver had made it onto the rescue platform, the older Tracy's annoyance had deteriorated into full-blown anger.

Hauling himself onto the platform, Virgil slammed the gate closed behind him. "Bring us up, Alan," he said shortly. _This is the point where the bus should fall off the ledge,_ he thought sourly, steadying himself as the platform began its ascent.

But it didn't. He watched it grow smaller, the black lettering blending into the yellow paint until it was no longer distinguishable. The rescue platform halted–resulting in more squeals from the children–and settled into its position in Two. The doors closed, enfolding them in the security of Two's cargo hold.

"Okay," said Virgil, swinging the gate open, "Let's get them into the infirmary." He stepped off the platform, turning to assist the driver and children. Once the uninjured had disembarked, he glanced back at his younger brother.

Gordon had scooped up the boy with the broken leg, waiting until the rest had left the platform. "I'll take them there," he said flatly. Nodding to the driver, he brushed past Virgil, a Pied Piper with the children filing behind him.

"We're not done yet," Virgil said softly to Gordon's retreating back. Whether his brother had heard him, or was merely ignoring him, he didn't care. And once they'd delivered their passengers. . . .

He pulled off his helmet, and headed for the cockpit. Alan looked at him as he entered, then vacated the pilot's chair with an alacrity that was lost on Virgil. "All secured, Thunderbird One," he announced, settling into position, "Heading for the hospital."

"F.A.B.," his father responded, "Thunderbird Five has already notified them that we're inbound."

The titanic workhorse of International Rescue rose from the canyon, placidly following her smaller sister ship. Leaving the post-rescue chatter to One and Five, Two's crew remained silent during the flight, and the atmosphere in her cockpit grew uncomfortably palpable.

Alan snuck a few glances at his brother, but Virgil ignored him, and concentrated stubbornly on flying Two. Gordon remained in the infirmary with their passengers, and there was no communication between those areas. It was the longest post-rescue flight Alan remembered, and he was glad to see the lights of San Francisco finally sharpen into focus. Sighing with relief, he sagged back into the chair.

Thunderbird Two slowed, casting her mammoth shadow over the hospital's emergency room entrance. As she hovered over the area, Virgil radioed Gordon that they'd arrived, the first communication between the two since the rescue.

"Alan." His brother's voice broke into his respite, cold with suppressed fury. "Go help Gordon unload. You take the platform."

"Me?" Alan squawked, bolting upright, "What about Gor-" The pilot's seat swivelled, revealing an expression on its occupant rarely seen on that brother. Alan swallowed his protest. "F.A.B.," he stuttered, and scrambled for the lockers and his own helmet.

Having disposed of Alan temporarily, Virgil headed toward the pod area. Gordon would have to bring the rescuees back there, and once they were gone, they could settle this between them.

He held his temper through the first run of the rescue platform, neither he nor Gordon acknowledging the other. After it had dropped the second time, he counted to ten, then turned furiously on his younger brother. "What the hell were you doing?" he snapped, "You could have got us all-"

Suddenly, he was flat on the deck, watching the bulkhead walls–_or_ _was that the_ _ceiling?_–change from blinding white to their familiar green. The blow had taken him completely by surprise, in more ways than one. He shook his head, and winced. Pushing himself to a sitting position, Virgil glanced around for the culprit. Gordon was nowhere in sight.

"Virgil?" Having finished supervising the unloading of the children, Alan returned to the flight deck, only to find his brother propped against the bulkhead, carefully feeling his jaw. "What happened?"

"He hit me." It wasn't the first time in his life that he'd been hit by one of his brothers, but it was certainly the first time on a rescue. "The little shit hit me," he repeated. _At least he didn't break my jaw,_ although that portion of his anatomy was extremely tender at the moment.

"Gordon?"

"No, _John_," Virgil said sarcastically, "Who d'ya think? What is _eating_ him?"

Alan's expressive face went through a bevy of contortions. Virgil was beginning to feel that he had missed something, somewhere. In lieu of answering, Alan offered a hand to Virgil, pulling him to his feet.

Once vertical, Virgil took a deep breath. His stomach felt as if it had also received a blow or two. _Although that may have been from bench-pressing a dozen-odd kids onto the rescue platform. Or maybe smacking down on the bus. Twice. _Exhaling vehemently, he started toward the infirmary area, where he suspected Gordon had retreated.

Guessing his intent, Alan grabbed him, hanging on like a dog to a bear. "Don't," he said, grimacing as he was dragged along by his enraged brother, "Virg. . . let Dad handle it." He dug in as best he could on Three's smooth deck. "C'mon, man. . . Vir-_gil_. . . ."

Virgil turned on him with a murderous glare. Alan quickly released him, not willing to take pounding for Gordon. But he kept a wary eye on his brother, ready to pounce if Virgil again showed signs of going after said brother

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't pound the crap outta him," Virgil challenged.

Guilt flooded Alan's face, and Virgil _knew_ that he had missed something–a briefing, a memo–_something_ he should have known about.

"Al-_lan_." The accented syllable caused an equal drop in Alan's stomach. He glanced about, seeking a means of escape as Virgil stepped toward him.

"Ah." It was the best Alan could manage at the moment. The look on Virgil's face would have been funny, under any other circumstances. As would have been the concept of Virgil–Mr. Zen himself–being this furious. _It was definitely one for the record books._ But, caught at the moment between protecting one brother, and taking the blame for that brother's behavior, Alan wasn't finding a whole lot of humor in anything.

"_Al_."

Virgil's patience was thinning quickly, and Alan was painfully aware of that. Self-preservation kicked in. Ducking out from both Virgil's accusatory glare and his reach, he surrendered Gordon's secret. "He shot John."


	21. Phi Ori

The silence returned as they flew back to Tracy Island. Not as oppressive as during the flight from the canyon, but heavy enough to be uncomfortable–and to inhibit conversation.

Once again, Virgil focused on flying Thunderbird Two. Not that he needed to concentrate on the 'bird. He could fly her if he was half asleep, and still not touch a single palm tree on her runway. But he felt numb and frozen, much as he had when he'd found out about the takeover on Five and the other stations. That absence of feeling alternated with a slow fury–both that Gordon had done such an idiotic thing, and that no one had told _him._

Alan was mercifully quiet. He occasionally glanced at his older brother, but refrained from any comments.

There was a different sort of silence from the other side of Two's cockpit. The seat Gordon should have occupied remained empty. Exactly where he was hiding was immaterial at the moment–somewhere in Two. His absence only fueled additional outrage. That Gordon hadn't said anything, that he'd let them all believe it was the terrorists that had–

Virgil flexed his hand, trying to stifle his anger. Now he wished he'd landed a few more punches on the asshole who'd come aboard Three. Gordon was eighteen months younger than him, and that situation was a hell of a lot to foist on a kid. Which was how he still saw Gord yet, despite his having been a working member of International Rescue for two years. His pique abated somewhat. _And_, Virgil reminded himself, _you don't know the particulars of the situation. _

Neither did Alan, at least from what Virgil had been able to worm out of his youngest brother. Gordon had confessed shortly before the three of them left the hospital, only to Alan and Scott. Alan didn't know if Dad knew, if Scott had told him yet. Gordon was supposed to call Scott when they got to the hotel. And they'd gotten the summons for the rescue just after they'd checked into the hotel.

_From the hospital to the hotel. From there to the island. All during the rescue. Gordon didn't say anything, and Alan didn't say anything, and Scott didn't say anything._ The anger flared again, as Tracy Island slowly filled the viewscreen. _And I thought he was worried about John._

He wasn't being logical with his anger, and he didn't care. Gordon _had _screwed up on the mission, had almost caused Two to pull that bus off the ledge. Had almost killed the driver and seven kids. _And me_. And there was the essence of his anger, the one fact that kept pushing itself to the forefront of his thoughts.

The softest of thumps announced that Two had settled on her transporter. Virgil cut the VTOLs, and waited while Alan activated the transporter. He hesitated only momentarily, then transferred control back to Virgil.

Any other time, Virgil would have razzed Alan about it, as well as his current record-holding status. This time–his thoughts still swirling around Gordon and his actions–he merely acknowledged the transfer, automatically backing the paired vehicles into Two's hanger.

The transporter lurched, as it ran over something on the launch pad. Thunderbird Two answered with the slightest of hiccups, shifting as she did sometimes when she was not quite settled properly on the transporter. The interior darkened as they retreated into the mountain.

Alan glanced out of the front viewports as Two shifted, curious as to what the transporter had run over. On the far end of the runway, the fake palms began their recovery. Straightening up two by two, shrinking the visual aspect of the area, they hid the unusual size of the runway.

Two had almost retreated into the mountain when he spotted the gap, looking like a missing tooth in a smile. One of the fake palms lay across the runway. And across from that gap, its partner tree wobbled drunkenly, having lost its counterweight. The transporter came to a halt, and the hanger's doors closed.

Alan grinned. The opportunity was too good to pass up, and he turned to his brother. One look at Virgil's set face, though, and he swallowed the wisecrack. Discretion was definitely the better part of hassle-your-brother.

A second shudder announced that Two's landing legs had touched down, and the leviathan rose above the transporter. There was an answering rumble as the sled moved out from under her.

"Finish her up, Alan," Virgil said curtly, heading for the pod area. An electronic squeal sounded from the control panel, and he halted, glancing back at the panel.

"Loading arm hatch," said Alan. _And I bet I know who._

Virgil's expression darkened. "Damn him." He turned abruptly, and headed toward that hatch.

Alan watched him leave. Gordon's self-preservation instincts were impeccable, given his perchance for practical jokes, and he was probably halfway across the island by now. Still, even though he could understand Virgil's anger–he'd also thought the bus was a goner–his sympathy was with his next-up brother.

He dug out the shutdown checklist from the chair pocket where he'd stuffed it, and starting working through it. The hatch indicator flared again, and he checked his watch, and figured out how much of a head start Gordon had.

The maintenance robots were swarming about Two by the time he'd finished the checklist, their odd clicks and squeaks echoing off the bulkheads. It had taken him longer than he should have, but at least no one would fault _him_ for leaving the work unfinished. One last glance around the area, and a trip to the left-side chair, where he replaced the checklist. The darn thing crumpled up and wouldn't go into the pocket, so he bent down to shove it in.

"Get _in_ there," he muttered at the pages. Since he was angled that way anyway, he continued around the backside of the chair, sliding along the bulkhead to the cockpit entryway. Intent on his thoughts, he swung into the doorway, and-

"Oh, shit!"

"Jeez-"

The two figures sprang back from each other. Heart hammering, Alan staggered back toward the pilot's chair, grabbing it for support. His knees wobbled dangerously, and he collapsed against the chair, gasping for breath.

Gordon didn't look much better. Braced against the doorway's frame, breathing as though he'd just finished a desperate sprint, the color slowly returned to his face. He turned, his back against the side of the doorway, and slowly sank to the deck, his own gasps beginning to sound strangely mirthful.

Alan felt the snickers welling up inside him, exploding into whoops of laughter. _We must look like a pair of idiots. _The chair's arm clipped him under the ribs, and he rolled off it, landing with a thump that sent him and Gordon into another paroxysm of hilarity. Helpless to do anything but lay there and laugh, Alan did just that.

When he'd settled down, and caught his breath, he rolled over, pushing himself up on hands and knees. He straightened up, and looked over at his brother.

Gordon dragged a sleeve across his eyes, then grinned at Alan. "You scared the shit outta me," he said, "I thought you left with Virgil."

"I thought you left before," Alan retorted.

"Yeah, well," Gordon's smile faded, "You were supposed to."

Alan sat back on his heels, his own expression sobering. "Why?"

Gordon sighed. "He's got a right to be pissed," he said flatly, "I screwed up. Big time." He focused his gaze on the ceiling; it was easier than looking at Alan. "And not just once."

"But-"

"Seven people," Gordon said softly, his voice without inflection. "Virgil, too." He paused, remembering. "And if the platform cables didn't hold, nine more." He wrapped his arms around his drawn-up knees.

_What about you? _A chill traced the bones of Alan's spine. "T-ten," he stuttered, "You . . . you were on the platform, too."

Gordon shrugged, and Alan felt the cold gather into a knot in his stomach. He shifted position, settling himself cross-legged on the deck, with the command chair at his back. He couldn't leave, not without crawling over Gordon, curled in the doorway. And something told him that he shouldn't. Not yet, anyway. "Like Dad said, we can't save everybody," he said cautiously.

The sound from Gordon was indistinct–it could have been a snort or a sob. "We aren't supposed to kill them," he said, his voice giving no hint either. He folded his arms on his knees, his gaze still fixed overhead.

"With Virgil, that's debatable," Alan muttered, remembering their altercation before this whole mess began, "Scott, too. And even John can-" Flushing, he stopped, and glanced at Gordon.

"John." Gordon's smile was flat and lifeless, as if he were simply going through the motion. It sent another shiver through Alan. "I screwed that up, too." His head dropped, forehead resting on his arms.

Alan hesitated, seriously wishing he could run yelling for Dad, Onaha, Kyrano, _anybody_. Even Virgil. He wondered if he could find the communications switch by touch, but realized it was on the other side of the chair. _That's out._ Then he remembered his communicator, and surreptitiously set it for "Send" only, hoping Scott would figure it out.

He crawled across the deck, parking himself on the opposite side of the doorframe, unsure of what to do next. For a moment, he thought Gordon was crying, and the idea shook him. He couldn't ever remember _any_ of his brothers crying–at least not in his presence. They were just too . . . _together_ to do something like that.

But Gordon's body was still, his breathing barely discernable. Too still. Tentatively, Alan reached for his brother, touching Gordon's elbow as though he were fire. "Gord?"

He jerked his hand back when the lights dimmed. The maintenance robots, having finished their work, had left the ship. Sensing this, Two powered down, leaving only emergency lighting, and those areas where she still sensed a human presence.

Gordon had looked up when the lights went out, his face dry and emotionless. Alan sighed with relief, then held his breath when his brother spoke.

"He had John in front of him, choking him," Gordon said. His voice was still without inflection, making his recitation that much more eerie. "And the knife . . . he was cutting him. I thought maybe if they . . . if I just threatened them . . . they'd let him go." His voice caught, then steadied. "I didn't want to depressurize Five. John said it could happen, and I knew they wouldn't let us get to the spacesuits."

He looked at Alan, not really seeing him, and Alan shivered. It was as if Gordon wasn't there–sitting on the deck of Two's cockpit–but back on Thunderbird Five, reliving the takeover. Alan risked a quick look at his communicator, and wondered if Scott was monitoring this.

"It wouldn't stop," Gordon continued, almost dreamily, "He kept . . . I should've told Dad right away, the first time. But John didn't say anything . . . I didn't know until he. . . ." He paused, and shuddered. "He said he forgot to duck. And the antibiotic, they figured out we were brothers. There wasn't enough, and the big one–Brad–he kept the other stuff." His voice dropped to a whisper. "They were going to kill one of us if we didn't get the weapons activated. And John. . . ." He closed his eyes, and dropped his head onto his knees, muffling his voice, "It's all my fault."

Alan watched him nervously. There'd been times when he'd seen his father and brothers down, when a mission hadn't gone as expected. Scott got moody, John got quieter. Virgil buried himself in music, and Gordon swam. And Dad . . . well, he wasn't sure what Dad did. But this was different, he'd never seen any of them act this way. It scared him.

Briefly, he wondered if he shouldn't suggest that they head for the pool. Or maybe even the ocean. Some instinct told him that a mere swim wasn't the solution. What it didn't tell him was what to do, what would help Gordon. He reached toward his brother, then indecisively drew back his hand.

"Alan."

The soft voice from the shadows momentarily panicked him, as if he'd been caught somewhere he shouldn't have been. To his surprise, Gordon hadn't seemed to hear it. Alan stood, peering into the shadows, and tried to identify the speaker, for there were times that each of his brothers sounded like Dad. _Especially John, a first-class mimic._

"Turn off your communicator."

He did so. Suddenly shaky, Alan steadied himself on the doorframe, then carefully stepped around Gordon. Concerned that he was abandoning his brother, he glanced apologetically at Gordon. Then he looked back into the shadows, unable to ask the question.

"It's okay, Alan. Just go."

Relieved to surrender the situation to someone else, and not wanting to see the resolution, Alan fled the area.


	22. Chi Ori

"Virgil."

Stubborn silence met equally stubborn silence. The discordance hovered momentarily, before it was extinguished with an exasperated sound. Then a longer pause, followed by more footsteps–and Virgil could stomp when he wanted to–tracing Alan's retreat.

Gordon remained still, hoping for a third set of footsteps. It was bad enough that he'd started babbling like an idiot in front of Alan. But now, well . . . things couldn't get worse_. Unless, of course, John showed up. That would _definitely_ be worse, despite what John said. But then, John'd been under the influence of a lot of things at the time–fear, pain, narcotics, shock . . . Damn! He'd forgotten about shock_. Thoughts and feelings swirled like loose feathers, evading his mental grasp.

He gave up trying to subdue them. "How'd you know?" he asked, his voice muffled.

His father stepped into the lighted area. "Alan," he said softly, "By way of Scott." Moving carefully to the spot vacated by his youngest son, he hesitated, then squatted down, bringing himself within Gordon's visual field. For several moments, neither spoke.

Jeff covertly studied his son. The uniform covered the minor cuts and bruises that Gordon had sustained–_although he'd pulled the bandage off from his neck_–with the gloves hiding the worst of those injuries. Visually, he looked fine.

But it was the flat affect, the blank moments, and the stillness that had Jeff concerned, as well as what he had overheard these last couple of minutes. It was something he'd overlooked–in spite of the signals he'd gotten–in the confusion of the situation on Five, the worry about John, and the subsequent rescue. Part of him longed to gather Gordon in his arms and just hold him. But he knew their relationship had gone beyond that.

Leaning backward, he hit the bulkhead, and winced. The impact was slight, but the back injury he sustained the previous year chose inconvenient moments to flare up. And his position was not helping. Jeff grimaced as he settled himself on the floor, well aware that he held an extremely fragile moment. Purposefully keeping his gaze from his son, he waited.

The silence did nothing to quiet the turmoil inside Gordon. _Maybe it wasn't too late to catch up with Virgil._ A pounding from him would be better than what was probably coming. Subordinate to commander, citizen to world, sibling to sibling, son to father–he'd screwed up royally at every level. Feeling rather deer-in-the-headlights-ish, he lifted his head, and looked at his father.

That look struck Jeff to the depths of his being. To the casual bystander, Gordon's face was carefully blank. An expression all the boys had learned from him, and emulated well. But the eyes were the windows to one's soul, and only the eldest two had learned to guard them.

Gordon hadn't. And the haunted, reticent look Jeff saw there cut him deeply.

Before he could say anything, Gordon spoke. "John . . . It wasn't. . . . I . . ."

"I know," Jeff said.

"How?" He didn't remember saying anything to anyone–other than Alan.

"It doesn't matter," said Jeff. And–in spite of Scott's conscience-stricken after-action report–it _didn't_ matter. He hadn't yet talked to Alan, nor John, but even so. The whole situation was _no one's_ fault, for it could have happened on anyone's rotation, to any of them. "You did what you could, given the circumstances." He shifted, seeking a more comfortable position, and added, "Would it have changed anything, if. . . ." He hesitated, seeking the right words. "If they'd injured John?"

"I don't . . . maybe . . . " Gordon faltered. "John didn't . . . "

"John doesn't." Jeff grimaced at the stiletto of pain in his spine. "But that's John, not you." He glanced obliquely at his son, debating how far he could push the subject, and reiterated, "Given the circumstances, you did what you thought was right. Second-guessing yourself won't change anything."

Gordon's expression relaxed. Jeff sighed, belatedly realizing the eggshells he just had walked on–both as father to son, and commander to subordinate. It didn't make his final conditions any easier to lay down. "One other thing," he said.

Apprehension returned to his son's face, twisting at Jeff's conscience. "What?" said Gordon, guardedly.

"You're going to see Dr. Perry," Jeff said, naming the psychologist who was one of the partners of their family doctor. Briefly debating if he should require it from all the boys, he quickly dismissed the thought. _Let's deal with one son at a time_.

"What!" The degree of apprehension shifted. "No way!"

"Gordon." The admonishment came out harsher that he'd intended, and Gordon flinched as though he'd been slapped. Jeff took a deep breath, searching for a way to soften his reaction.

"Why can't I just talk to Onaha?" Gordon appealed, "Or Kyrano, or. . . . or. . . . ?"

"No dice," Jeff interrupted, shaking his head. "Onaha and I talked about this last year, when. . . ." He bit off both the words and the memory. "It's not her field," he said quietly, "And after what happened, well. . . . I respect her advice." He held up a hand to still further protest, and his voice softened. "Gordon, _I_ need to know you're all right."

"I'm fine." The response was quick and defensive.

Jeff smiled. "I'd like a second opinion," he said, in a voice that broke no argument.

Gordon was silent, acknowledging defeat. Then he asked, "What about John?"

"When he's recovered." Jeff shifted again, not quite stifling the wince. His back was definitely _not _appreciating his current position.

Gordon's expression changed, and Jeff could have kicked himself for directing his son's thoughts back in that direction. He stood–a subtle attempt at both closing the discussion and relieving the strain on his back–and for the first time in their discussion, looked directly at his son. He took a deep breath, the words bitter before he even said then. "You're grounded until then," he said.

"Grounded?" Dismay quickly replaced the resignation, as Gordon protested, "But, Dad. . . ."

"You're grounded," Jeff repeated, steeling himself. It left International Rescue extremely short-handed, with John out for who-knows-how-long. And he'd definitely have to automate Thunderbird Five again, in order to bring Scott back down, for there was no way that he and Virgil could handle things alone. _But if that what it takes. . . ._ "Until Dr. Perry gives you clearance."

The mutinous look returned, and for once, Jeff was relieved to see it. He briefly considered softening the blow, telling Gordon that John would be grounded for the same reason, but then rejected the idea. He had never required one son's actions as surety for another's, and he wasn't going to start now. It took all of his willpower to turn and leave Two, when his instincts demanded otherwise. It was just the way relations were–with all the boys.

Stunned, Gordon watched his father walk away. He couldn't remember any of them being grounded from rescues for anything other than purely physical reasons. The indignity of being the first shredded his carefully build defenses, and for a moment, he was unreasonably angry with John for putting him in this position. And at Scott and Alan, for squealing. Then Virgil, just because. And finally Dad, for grounding him, making him see a shrink before he could. . . .

Gordon pounded his fist in frustration on Two's deck. _It wasn't fair._ _If John hadn't decided to stay on Five, this wouldn't have happened. _The fact that he would have been there alone–with its potential consequences–completely escaped him. _I don't need to see a shrink. _

His body finally protested that it had been sitting there too long, and that it wasn't the most comfortable of sites. Still hurt and angry, Gordon pulled himself upright, his various muscles protesting at their cramped positions. He headed toward the loading arm hatch.

Once there, he punched in the code_-again-_to let himself out of Two. This time, he settled into the loading arm, allowing it to swing him to the floor of the hanger. As soon as his feet touched the floor, he was out of the seat and heading toward the elevator.

Just short of the elevator platform, he was decked by a blow. There was no question who was waiting for him. Gordon scrambled to his feet, and faced his brother.

"You . . . "

"What do you want me to say?"

"How about 'I'm sorry'?"

"It won't change anything."

Something in the air collapsed. "No," admitted Virgil. With a conscious effort, he relaxed his fist, righteous anger sighing from him. "But, damn it, you could have said something."

"I. . . ." He spread his hands helplessly–there was nothing he could say to that. Guilty as charged, Gordon stood mute.

Virgil eyed him suspiciously, waiting for the punch line. _Gordon should be protesting his innocence, with a thousand reasons why he'd shouldn't be blamed for this._ The unusual behavior was disquieting, as though the rules of a game had suddenly changed, and it made him uneasy.

He wasn't the only one. Watching Virgil warily, Gordon wondered if he would have to go through this with each of his brothers. _And Dr. Perry. Don't forget her._ He briefly wished that he could trade places with John, let him deal with all this. John was better at it anyway, and–other than momentary giddiness–he didn't have the reaction to anesthesia that John did. _If I'm gonna be grounded, it might as well be worth it._

Grudgingly, Virgil offered detente. "Dad's headed back to Honolulu, and I have to go get Scott," he said, "He's automating Thunderbird Five while John's. . . ." He stopped, struggling with his anger, and extended his olive branch further. "I need a shotgun on Three."

"I'm . . . grounded." Saying the words aloud hurt worse than hearing them.

"What?" The admission startled Virgil, and he looked at his younger brother in sympathy. "How long?"

Gordon shrugged.

Virgil whistled softly. The sound stopped abruptly as he worked through the remaining copilot possibilities, his expression changing from sympathetic to considering. "That leaves . . ." Consternation replaced consideration, as he realized who was left. "Oh, crap."

Watching his brother's sinking expression, a grin–the second honest grin since this whole mess began–spread across Gordon's face.

"Damn," said Virgil in resignation.


	23. Psi Ori

_Oh, God, this sucked. _

His consciousness tore its way through the proverbial jungle of images, feelings, and memories. Roiling together in no particular order, and making them all the more confusing. Then there were the overwhelming nausea, and pain–insistent, incessant pain. _And someone's been messing with the thermostat again. _In spite of his closed eyes, the outside world continued as a vicious centrifuge with the pain as its hub. But opening his eyes would only make things worse, for the darkness would resolve into blurred images dancing in a frenzied carousel. _I really, really hate this._

He could guess–hell, he _knew_ why he was feeling this way. It was a rare enough experience, with each previous occurrence carved into his memory in exquisite detail. This episode's precise details were still lost in the maelstrom that was conscious thought, but he knew he'd had some kind of anesthesia. It didn't matter if it was the appendectomy he'd had at twelve or that torn shoulder muscle last year. They'd yet to invent an anesthesia that agreed with John Tracy.

"John. John?"

The voice was unfamiliar, but his mind groped toward it like a lifeline.

"It's okay. We're giving you something for the nausea. Just relax."

_Relax. Right. Like telling a. . .a. . . to . . . . _He gave up, unable to think of any appropriate comparisons that could adequately describe the maelstrom raging in him.

". . . last time he had. . . ."

"Thirteen forty-five. . . ."

"Notify Doctor . . . " the voice faded out, then suddenly was stronger. ". . . father here?"

Just hearing the conversation was an effort. Following it was almost impossible. He latched onto the salient word and slurred, "Dad?"

"Ssh," cautioned another of the voices, "It's all right."

_Yeah, right. Easy for you to say._

"Hey, John."

He knew that voice. A hand touched his; solid, comforting, and familiar. He stopped fighting, and the salmagundi–_where did that word come from, anyway–_of his thoughts fused into blinding whiteness.

The whiteness faded to black, and he had no sense of how long it stayed that way. The next time he dared open his eyes, the images were still somewhat blurred. But their kaleidoscope whirling had ceased, leaving behind a headache that ranked twenty on a scale of one to ten. Still, the absence of vertigo made it easier to focus on the figure curled in a nearby chair, dozing.

"Hey," he croaked, his voice feeling as though it had been packed away in someone's attic, "No parking zone."

The figure jerked awake. "John," he said, relief evident in both voice and expression. Unfolding himself from the chair–and looking like a stretched-out hedgehog as he did so–he stood, and moved next to the bed. "How do you feel?"

"Lousy," John admitted. There wasn't a spot on him that didn't hurt, whether actual or sympathetic. His mouth tasted as though he'd been sick somewhere during the de-anesthesizing, and the room still felt overly warm. "Where's Dad?"

"Packed him off," Scott yawned, "Told him I'd wait here, but only if he went and got some rest himself, since you were sleeping the day away." He stretched, inadvertently rocking the IV stand in the process. "Oops."

"You're disturbing the peace," John said in mock complaint.

"You haven't heard peace disturbed," Scott retorted, rubbing the kinks from his neck, "'Till you've been stuck in Three with Virgil and Alan." He sighed in exasperation. "Those two need their heads knocked together."

"Didn't you?"

"Couldn't reach," his brother grinned. He stretched again, and added, "Besides, they were flying. I didn't want to end up in some other solar system."

John chuckled. The motion jarred both his shoulder and head, and the pain made him wince. It was a good kind of hurt, comparatively. But with it, real memory kicked in, and his expression turned thoughtful. "What about the other stations?" he asked.

"Situation's over," Scott told him. "ASP personnel regained control of their station, and did something at ISS to disrupt that station. ISS evacuated back to ASP, and then the military turned around and went after IWN's station." He folded his arms on the bed's railing, leaning briefly against it. "From what they said, when they came over and hauled off those jerks, I guess Five was next on their list, but Dad had already made 'other arrangements'."

"Thanks to Gordon," John murmured. "How's he doing?"

The lack of immediate response took an equivalently long time to register. Concerned, John looked at Scott, watching him blur into two indistinct images. He shook his head, willing his brain and eyes to focus, and the images resolved back into one. "Scott?"

_I should've known. . . ._ "Not too good," he sighed, straightening up. He noted the worry forming in John's eyes, and added, "Physically, he's fine. Couple of scratches and bruises."

"But . . . ?"

"But . . . " Scott hedged. He weaseled around John's gaze, then reluctantly met it and sighed again. "He called me after you got out of surgery. He was acting kinda flaky, but I thought it was just because of stress. You know, from the situation and all. Then Alan came, and said something about those guys shooting you and Gordon said it wasn't them. He said. . . ." he clenched his fists, regretting his inability to strangle Alan before he'd opened his mouth.

John closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again. "He didn't mean to."

Scott snorted. "If he had, Dad'd have him in remedial training so fast . . . okay, okay." He held up his hands in surrender at his brother's glare. "Anyway, they were supposed to be going to the hotel, and I told Gord to call me from there, cause Dad was here with you. But. . . ." _Who'd've thought a piece of paper would've hit me so hard . . . but Gordy was always screwing around during first aid training. _"But then we got a rescue call."

He hesitated again, remembering. Sitting there on Five, powerless to do anything other than listen to the transmissions. Wishing he'd been more insistent with Dad, wishing that Alan would say something, wishing that he could interrupt without Gordon hearing. Remembering the horror as it happened, remembering the raw anger in Virgil's voice, remembering the transmitted squeals of the children, along with the frightened yelp of Alan's that he bet no one else heard.

And then, the immutable silence, broken by Alan's signal. The cold feeling in the pit of his stomach, as he listened to Gordon's flat, unemotional recitation while simultaneously fumbling his own call back to Tracy Island. Followed by more silence, which was interrupted only by Virgil's announcement that they were pulling him back to Tracy Island.

"Scott?"

Mentally, he shook himself, and met John's look. "Gordon freaked out on the rescue," he said carefully. He watched John recoil in denial, and shook his head. He could only wish he was making this up. "It was like he was having flashbacks, or something. He-" He stopped abruptly. _How do I tell him that Gordon almost killed Virgil and nine other people with his . . . what? Carelessness? Absentmindedness? What the hell would you call it? _He reminded himself that John might sound like he was fully recovered, but there was no doubt that his brother was pushing himself beyond the mental fog and physical exhaustion that always surrounded him after anesthesia.

Still, he knew John wouldn't be satisfied if he stopped there. "He almost caused an . . . incident," Scott said. "Dad's grounded him."

John quirked a smile at the phrase "an incident." _Code word for "major fuck-up."_ Still, if Gordon was beating himself up over this . . . these _incidents_. He frowned at hearing that Gordon had been grounded.

"Not because . . . " Scott's image wavered in his vision. _God, I'm tired, so tired._

"I don't know," Scott admitted, kneading his own forehead. He didn't _even_ want to consider the fact that one of his brothers might be cracking up–and there was nothing _he_ could do about it. For so long, he'd been Mr-Fix-It, the last-step-before-Dad. Like John had been "Dear Abby." And between the two of them, they'd caught most of their brothers' angst and dealt with it before it reached their father.

But not this time. With John out for the count, and his being stuck up on Five during the crux of the situation, Scott felt as though he'd had one shoe off, one hand tied behind his back, and both eyes blindfolded throughout the whole mess. _One step behind all the way_.

John was silent, his eyes again closed. Scott figured his brother had fallen asleep, for–God knows–John had enough to deal with, on top of the stuff he'd just now loaded on him. Rising, he tried to move quietly out of the room.

"Scott."

"Yeah?" He turned back to the bed, the moment slowing into eternity as he waited.

"I want to see him."

He looked at John carefully before replying. As imperturbable as John could be, he was as capable as any of them in kicking ass as needed. _Worse, actually, 'cause you didn't expect it from him._ Scott hesitated, wondering if maybe his brother was really ticked off at Gordon. _This could be bad, really bad._ Mentally crossing his fingers, he equivocated, "If Dad says."

There was no answer. Convinced that John had indeed fallen asleep, Scott softly amended, "If Doc Perry says."


	24. Omega Ori

Three weeks had passed since the situation on Thunderbird Five. Temporarily relegated to Honolulu during most of that time, Gordon had chafed at his required sessions with Dr. Perry. He found them easier than he'd expected, though, thanks in part to Kyrano. The _soi-disant_ gardener had also summarily relocated to the hotel, ostensibly to return the brothers to Tracy Island once John was released from the hospital. But he had also been a touchstone for Gordon while the young man worked through his self-recrimination, providing unobtrusive reflection and counsel.

Initially, approaching John had been difficult. The extremely vocal meeting had earned the brothers admonishments from the hospital staff, temporary ejection from the hospital for Gordon, and left each of them vexed with the other for a couple of days. Neither Dr. Perry nor Kyrano seemed overly concerned, though, and Gordon wondered if they'd set it upas things had eventually settled into some semblance of normalcy. And as to whether John had been required to undergo similar sessions with Dr. Perry, Gordon never learned, for no one would admit to anything.

Once they'd returned home, the two grounded brothers had also put up with the inevitable teasing–mostly in reference to broad sides of farm buildings, slackers, and remedial training. The majority was provided courtesy of Scott and Virgil, although John contributed his share of teasing Gordon. And Alan was in his glory, gloating about having been pressed into service while John and Gordon recovered.

Between the teasing and Alan's crowing, Gordon's prankish nature was resurfacing with vengeance. And so–two days after his return to the island–he stood outside his brother's half-open door, pleading.

"C'mon, Virg. Just one brush and a tube of paint," Gordon begged, "Just for a couple of minutes." He bounced impatiently, afraid that his chance would pass before Virgil consented. "I'll bring 'em right back." He spread both hands in front of him, and displayed his uncrossed fingers. Looking as angelic as possible, he added, "I promise."

"What for?" Virgil asked. Unconvinced by Gordon's act, he was not about to be drawn into whatever his younger brother was planning. "You can't draw a straight line, let alone paint one."

"Aw, come on, Virgil." Gordon considered whining, but for some odd reason that always worked better with Scott. Considering his options, he settled for innocence personified, his face assuming the expression John used so well. "Please?" _Come on, Virg, _he groused silently,_ sometime before Christmas_.

Several minutes passed before Virgil grudgingly gave in. "Okay," he said, still eyeing his brother suspiciously, "But if it's Scott you're after, you're on your own." He walked to the door, handed Gordon a brush and a tube of yellow paint, and looked at him significantly, "And I don't see you here, right?"

"Okay, okay," Gordon agreed, relieved to have won his case. He headed away from the room, then–noticing the color of the tube of paint–stopped and scowled at it. _That won't show up._ He turned back and looked pleadingly at Virgil. "Got any pink?"

"Pink?" Virgil echoed, incredulously. He gestured at the box of oil paints. "Do you see any pink?" Exasperated, he pointed at the items in Gordon's hands, enumerating them, "One tube, one brush. You wanted them, you got them."

Taking the gesture as an invitation, Gordon entered Virgil's room, and headed toward the box. He rooted in the box, ransacking its contents for several minutes. "Green, then. No, no, purple. Oops." Several items clattered to the floor, evoking a pained expression from Virgil. He finally pulled out a tube of blue paint. "Okay, blue. That'll work." Leaving the box in disarray and his brother thoroughly annoyed, he headed out, calling, "Thanks, Virg. I owe you."

Gordon hurried back toward the lanai, hoping that his victim was both still there, and still asleep. He detoured through the kitchen–momentarily distracted–and circled behind Onaha, giving her a quick kiss as he snitched some pieces of fruit from the salad she was making. She swatted at him, scolding, but he was already out of reach.

He skirted the hot tub, and paused at the far edge of the first pool, shading his eyes against the sun. _Yup, he was still there, stretched out on the lounge chair._ Gordon quickly headed down the steps, and past the diving pool, moving in such a way as to keep his shadow away from his victim.

Pausing a few feet from his target, he listened, but heard no active sounds. He stole around the occupied chair, and waited again. Assured that his brother still slept, Gordon squatted alongside him, and removed the cap from the paint tube. He daubed the brush at the paint, and lightly stroked it along his chosen area, occasionally checking to ensure that his victim hadn't awoke.

When he had finished, he recapped the tube. Absently flicking the brush in his hand–and leaving tiny blue specks on the deck as he did so–Gordon stepped back, admiring his handiwork. The entire exposed side of the white sling was covered in irregular blue letters, spelling out the name "JOHN."

Gordon nodded in satisfaction, and headed back into the house. First stop was to return Virgil's brush and paint. And the second involved self-preservation, for he had no doubts about John's reaction.

None whatsoever.

Fini

Author's note:

_Inexpressible and incalculable thanks to Drew (my DHD), not-so-wee-Hamish, Avatar1, Brendan (RIP), Sassy-cat, and Squirticus Maximus Maybourne Alan for their help and patience during the creation of this story. Words cannot adequately express my appreciation for your support._

_Thanks also to those who read and commented on this story all along: Iniysa, Spense, numbah 14/storm05, annie, Rathead, Tikatu, rozzy07, Rachie loves Donald Duck, Agent Five, SaucerEyes, music nimf, Neenie, Emerald Queen, Opal Girl, Lillihafrue, Varda's Servant, Claudette, and Sam1. You guys challenged me to stay one step ahead of you, to do one more polish, one last spell-check, one more read-through before posting. (And STILL some errors snuck through!) _

_And also to Neenie and Lillihafrue for their comments to "Behind the Scenes." (BTW, Lille, you guessed right on the coin toss)_

_And most belatedly, to Elnoo and Oden, for allowing me to borrow their on-line names as character names. May your shared birthdate be joyous, guys!_


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